Crosshair
by DingDongFootball
Summary: Subjected to cruel and inhumane research, BLU Scout is a beta tester for the top secret Respawn System, a project spearheaded by Builders League United to strengthen their war effort against RED. Scout's resentful attitude toward the project only makes things worse, and RED Sniper's curiosity gets him involved in it all. RED Sniper/BLU Spy, RED Sniper/BLU Scout. Slash.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: For those of you who are familiar with my other story, The Indiana Jones/Ceasefire, you know that I am just as much about the story as I am the slash.**

**This story is no exception. It's a bit long and a bit cumbersome in the beginning, but hopefully you keep reading in spite of its rather slow beginning. I just felt I needed to establish the project and the storyline before any actual romance happened. **

**Anyway, a lot of people have a tendency to write "What if the Respawn System quit working?" so I decided to take respawn in a slightly different direction; How did the Respawn System come to be, and what psychological effects did it have on the mercenaries, at what cost was it developed? This story explores this question. ****I hope you enjoy it!**

**-Dingdongfootball**

**Team Fortress 2**

**Pairings: Sniper/Spy, Sniper/Scout**

Soil kicks up and flings in linear, upward streaks of earthy daggers, sprung into motion by the momentum of Scout's shoes. The shoes, with the worn in grooves in the black-beaten-grey leather, and the white strips faded hueless, the peeling paint dissolved into obscurity with each crash of heel to ground. The shoes with the '67 style cut of the soles, celebrating their first anniversary of fashionable irrelevance, outdated. The shoes with the persistence of the aureate searchlight tagging the ground in dexterous pursuit seconds after Scout himself had contacted the parched dirt with cramped toes and searing ankles.

The voices behind him carried farther than the sight of the bodies to which they belonged; a mile stood between himself and BLU base proper, a distance covered by Scout in a mere six minutes. Hardly a feat, but a result of what was sometimes days' worth of training and scouting missions, the very same six minutes were enough to ensure the young man in the back of his mind that this time, freedom would be the only result of his attempted escape.

Sheds and barns speck the arid plains like wooden freckles, the New Mexico landscape growing more and more desolate the father one became from the gated premises of TF Industries territory. The lumbered sides of the buildings are charred with the effects of battle, the Administrator's claim that TeufortCity would find the presence of TF Industries unnoticeable was nothing short of a lie. Where Scout saw ringed burn marks and the black ash of destruction, Helen Ingram saw it all with the tint of dollar green.

Small lizards scuttle at his feet, invisible due to the dark blanket of sky, sensed only because he can feel the crush of their tender bodies under his heel. His breath settles in the gorges of his cracked lips, the sinewy ribbed pattern of the bruised skin a bloodless white, the peeling skin hardened on their fleshy edges.

Gone, lost, and untraceable in the dark stretch of midnight badland, his pursuers would assume he had taken the more obvious stretch, the paved road leading to TeufortCity. The researcb team had never held him for being clever. As he nears a shack, lifeless and still, his weighted heart and burning thighs pulsate with added fervor the closer the young man comes to the idea of temporary refuge. Farming tools, rustic and dull, lie discarded against side's planks, and as Scout flings himself inside with no regard as to what may lie behind the door, he suddenly registers the sound of his own breath; being alive did not surprise him.

He feels no blessing in being spared, he says no prayer to keep him alive, to see that he breathes and thinks, and that his blood swims blue in his veins, that his cheeks are red and puffed with air, and that his hair is damp and sweaty with the encouragement of his own fear. His breath is hot, and his ears are clogged with pressure when his lungs are no longer enough to house his flamboyant gasps. His voice bobs in his dried throat, and his lips swear with twinging pain as his teeth grind down against them again to chew anxiously upon them. His eyes adjust to the dark, alert and responsive, his nostrils flare, and his shins ache, his fingers tremble, and he finds no solace or comfort in his nerves being alive; he expected it. Death, for Lawrence, was neither a threat nor an option.

He stifles his gag reflex as dry summer air washes razor like along his parched esophagus. His chest takes in yet more great heaves of air, and like the bricks of oxygen that fill his lungs with the ease of cemented gravel, he wonders in heavy contemplation if he could simply stop breathing. Lawrence swears as his head grows light by the mere idea of asphyxiation; invincibility did not guarantee the absence of fear. It shows itself in the form of a swift arm movement, Scout bringing his scattergun to his chest, his shins folded to his knees. The silhouette of a scuttling reptile flashes in brief moments of perceptibility on the ceiling, closing his eyes as he can see the yellow spotlight brush shallowly across the shed outside. Voices, much to the young man's dismay, grow closer - he would still have to run.

By time he makes to start, Scout knows it is too late; dust swirls outside in lazy gusts, and the dull screeching of a vehicle halts in a dull rustle of treads upon muffling soot. He is surprised at the sound of his own whimper. It is only now he realizes his receptors of smell are being pursued by the scent of his own sweat. His breath displaces the stuffy air, and as weighted footsteps - a few of them - grow closer to the shed, he silently comes to terms with the fact that it would not be longer before he is found.

The door opens, Scout does nothing to stop it. Sitting still with his back pressed against the wall, the young man does not start as within the door way crowd three men, his eyes do not open to dignify their physical presence.

"Found him,"

Scout is breathless. In his defiance of internal will, he refuses to move, anchored as if magnetized to the dusty earth. He cannot name this new sense of paralysis, no image is there to appropriate whatever sensation it is that renders him immobile.

"He did not make it as far as we had assumed, I see…"

The moon is visible up above from the thin ribbons of space the men leave in between their compacted bodies. Slowly, Scout opens his eyes so that it would not be the only one to bear witness to the upcoming. A tall, portly man clad in a full rubber body suit the colour of a pale blue removes the rounded helmet from his stocky shoulders, revealing a head of thinning hair. Combed over in slivers of greasy strands, a single unruly one falls against his eyes and his hooked nose, which houses a single droplet of sweat upon which Scout focuses. The man's shaky breath hisses between his thin lips, Scout watching silently as the sweat finally latches itself off the tipped skin, losing physical recognizability as it clashes to the dirt, meshing with the ground.

"They hardly ever do! Get him already, would you? I did not accompany you all for entertainment," a handsomely dressed Italian scoffs somewhere behind the foremost figure and the tall, bespectacled German who stands partially visible in regards to the large doorway. "The test was not yet finished, or am I wrong?"

"No, you are correct," the rubber clad man chirps animatedly, removing the slick, charred gloves from his sweaty hands in a single fluid motion. With the limbs, the smell of petroleum jelly and lingering hints of acidic whiffs of chemical mixtures contaminate the quality of the already stuffy air. Setting them down against the ground, his knees crack audibly, coupled with a grunt in response to the aforementioned joints giving the portly man trouble. Silent seconds slip past the four unnoticeably; Scout sits calmly, breath subdued in anticipation.

"Why did you wear the suit, you look insane, Professor-"Dmitri sneers, eyebrows raised so high the small, crescent shaped bristles of hair strain at the follicles and tug at his olive skin. "Certainly reclaiming the boy does not require freak chic - it's a matter of retrieving him, not a concise depiction of science fiction,"

"If we had waited for me to change into something more appropriate we might have lost him!" Wallace whispers in a flustered, scruff of a retort, Dmitri eyeing the balding man who stands a head shorter than him in disgust, allowing the whole of his shadow laden upper lip to curl before his distaste subsides in lieu of further commentary. "Well if we just stand about like freaks and geeks much longer, I have no doubt he will get away, Professor!"

"These sorts of things require delicacy, Dmitri. Besides, we are blocking the door, there is nowhere he can run to,"

"He's a murderer, he's hardly fragile; grab him, drug him, batter him to damn near death if it speeds things along!"

"Nonsense, we must be gentle with him, we do not want him to struggle,"

"Let him, if that is how he wants it to be! Just take him and let's get back to the base, there are scorpions in here!" Dmitri snaps with moody finality, turning his back to the two men in his company, no longer visible from the doorframe.

"Would you rather wait in the car, Mr. Marino?" Wallace suggests calmly, gesturing for the German behind him to move upward so as to fill the newly vacated space.

"I'd rather not wait at all, Wallace," the Italian's voice quips from beyond Scout's realm of plausible vision. "The Administrator has granted you all with only so much as far as your research endowment is concerned; if she knew standstills between three powerful men and Scouts were part of the budget, she would most certainly redact the funding,"

"He's armed, Dmitri!" Wallace stutters, Scout careful to assure that the glare the Professor catches is one black with utter defiance. Instead he ends up capturing the attention of a slowly pacing Dmitri, whose indignant stalk leads him into the field of the young man's field of vision, blurred by scathingly narrowed eyes.

"So what? I dare him to shoot," the suited Italian smirks, flashing his green eyes over the rubber shoulder, challenging the huddled Scout, who does nothing as per his prediction. "Schmelzer, retrieve him."

The order is concise, and the silent German stretches his arms out before nearing Scout's figure against the wall. Like animated vines, Scout drops the firearm and grips tightly onto the thick knit the German dons, the forceful grip overpowering the larger man who means to capture him. With a racing heart and widened eyes, the middle aged Medic cannot help but fall prey to the muscular arms that bring the tips of their noses to meet like pristine symmetry. He gasps; their breaths rattle, gentle and refreshing against their sweaty faces, Scout's cheeks flushed with exhilaration of the imperative call to action. The moment, held upright upon a gaze of steel, by the tug of war their eyes maintain, remains completely unbroken for an entire two minutes as the two struggle subtly over physical control of the other. Crouched, and concealing the whole of Scout's body from the other two mens' perspectives with his broad back, Heinrich Schmelzer blinks rapidly as Scout leans in close, whispering desperately in his ear.

"What is taking so long, doctor-"

"Doc, Doc please," Scout pleads quietly, Heinrich's thin lips a pursed line of regret and pity as he looks his youngest comrade in the eye. "Please - don't let them take me back -"

"Every second you stall is a wasted dollar, Schmelzer!" Dmitri calls impatiently, lighting a cigarette in the midst of his nonchalant lean against the doorframe. "Now do it already, the longer we waste time here, the longer the rest of the test will take and he will not be fit for battle in the morning!"

The hands on Heinrich's biceps dig into the flesh of his upper arms with a predatory clench that suggests a madness swells within the young man with a fierce resilience, Medic biting down on his lip as he feels Scout's fluttering heart through the thickness of their shirts. The German's eyes waiver, the Bostonian's hands trembling in their grip just as fervently. He can feel the throbbing, synchronized ticks of their blood pressure, and his lung expands with the breath of Lawrence, slipping jaggedly from between his horribly dried and cracked lips. In a homage to his childhood, Scout yelps and thrashes as the powerful hands hold him down, forcing him to stay put against the wall, his scattergun well beyond arm's reach.

"What are you waiting for, Schmelzer?! Subdue him if you must!" Dmitri roars, producing a revolver from his breast, forcing himself past the stationary Wallace who watches his subordinate struggle with the Scout below.

"Nonsense, Dmitri, we don't have to shoot him! Check to see he still has the chip, Mr. Schmelzer," he commands quietly, Heinrich whispering a soft "Sorry, Junge," before bringing a thick forearm to press non lethally against the young man's throat. Scout's eyes water as the German adjusts his round glasses, avoiding his glance as he pinches at muscled skin along the middle of the young man's bicep. Blood rushes to the surface, leaving yet another bruise to bejewel the young man's worn flesh like biological treasure, studded along the surface of his body in sea greens and sickly puces.

"Yes,"

Scout slumps wearily, lopsided and askew like disheveled, forgotten chaos. The longing in his unfocused eyes fool the middle aged doctor into believing the young man succumbs to physical ineptitude. Instinct and a scathing sense of loathing, consuming all of the energy of awareness Lawrence could hardly claim to possess, leave him knowing full well it is resignation that allows him to let his comrade do as he pleases.

"He does."

"Then use it," Dmitri whispers to the contemplative Wallace beside him, who produces a rectangular contraption from a leather satchel at his side. A meaty finger flips a thin silver switch upon the metallic instrument, and Heinrich's body shakes at the sound of Lawrence's desperate screams, the roar of Scout's panting, excruciated cries and twisted face forcing the man to shut his eyes should he be able to continue holding his thrashing body down. Working as a conductor of the current used to bridle the already submissive Scout, Heinrich can taste an almost liquefied energy in the back of his heated throat, the short hairs of his neck standing on end like ghostly blades of erect grass, a meadow of death. The shocks of harmful voltage stop only after Scout ceases to show audible reactions to the electricity. Like clockwork, Heinrich learns to predict the turning on and off of the device by timing it with Lawrence's writhing. Like charred dinner ruined on a solemn evening, his nasal passages constrict at the smell of burning, a reflex spawned from the German's childhood.

"I zink he is dead…" Heinrich whispers tonelessly, opening his eyes only after a whole minute's silence. Sure enough, the body in his arms is lifeless, Scout's cheeks still warm from the heated methods used against him.

"Think?! You are a doctor, Schmelzer, there should be no question," Dmitri spits venomously, Heinrich furrowing his brow before regaining a sense of confidence, and bringing the pads of his fingers to lie gently against Scout's long neck.

"I do not feel a pulse…"

"Well that is good news, no? It means that he didn't try to tamper with the chip during his pathetic attempt at escaping. Honestly, I've seen cockroaches put up a more impressive chance at fleeing than all five of this child's tries," Dmitri tosses his cigarette, wiping his gloved hands and giving the figures a nonplussed eye roll. "Though I will admit his attempt to escape with the laundry wasn't so bad. In any case, it is nice to see that Miss Ingram's investment in your technology was not a folly in which Builders League continues to persist,"

"Hardly at all, I think you will be very impressed with the progress we've made once you have a chance to hear over our results more thoroughly! that is if the young Scout would cease in giving us so much trouble,"

"Well he is dead no? Why not use this opportunity of peace to show me that what I intend to see instead of dragging me around over such minutae,"

"He has three minutes," Wallace nods, the German who still kneels against the ground careful to bring the body of the runner gingerly into his arms. "If the results of last week's trials are to be taken into account and presumed to serve as an accurate model,"

"Well," Dmitri sighs, raising his arms in mock resignation. "Let us get going then. I have no business here."


	2. Crosshair

Whether alive or dead, someone always sought to capture him. The tips of his nonexistent toes dip in the formless black of ground beneath him, and miles coast between himself and his point of origin. Streaks of red flash before his blinded eyes. Though he has no physical arms to grab, the forceful lurch that attempts to hurl him through peace with a velocity unlike anything earthly still clenches down so heavily upon his vulnerable soul. How long his heart beat in his chest, how often his thoughts had caused him worry and shaking voices, how badly his feet had ailed him and how many tears he had cried in that other existence. He didn't want to go back. A childish instinct of flight ignites within him, but quashed by the pressure of the inescapable, Lawrence senses the constant stream of his own musings and slowly, he receives an awareness of flesh to grade just how far he falls.

The first thump of a revived heart was the flourishing high note composed by the realm below willing you to live. An artificial jumpstart circulates air to Lawrence's lungs, and his mind screams in regret, clinging fervishly to the black visions of sleep, and the shadows of unconsciousness. Sentimental struggling etches itself upon the young man's peaceful face in the form of ticks and neurotically induced twitches, eyes fluttering madly behind the still shut lids. Heinrich watches quietly as Scout, who lies below him in the leather stretcher, parts them slowly, his pupils dilating to the overwhelming sights of life. Vivacity steals the Bostonian, holding the runner for ransom, the straps against his tender body an earthly prison Lawrence does not even attempt to escape.

Death was always painless. So relieving and numbing, accepting death was gliding into the frozen arms of a carefully juxtaposed comfort Scout had come to know so well, like an old friend of whom he'd earned the pleasure of first name interaction, loyal and always there, the ovation at the end of a long and well played symphony. Waking up again meant fingering the brittle substance of his soul, crumbled, stretched and worn thinner and thinner every time he was unnaturally drug away from celestial rest. It is hard for the brunette to form words through his stony lips, despite this being far from his first encounter with the oddities of resurrection.

Like being buried alive, but in reverse, the effects however just the same; a final breath exiting the body had just as sharp of a pain on the lungs as the first gust of air expanding them, once the subconscious will to breathe had long since dissipated. Fingers meant to touch again just before the fortress of rigamortis had almost rendered them encased in a deadly verdict. With no control over his muscles, Scout's attempt to hoist himself up to better hear the doctor's muttered words falls short as his biceps fail to carry his weight. His blanched, white body slowly swells with a vivacious hue, drops of blood trickling in biologically commanded streams under the skin, that gradually inflates with the carnation indication of vitality. He is still frightened; Heinrich needn't look Scout in the eye to know it outright. He was always frightened the first ten minutes of revival. No matter the method of temporary death, waking from it always seemed to leave the Bostonian a quiet, mental conundrum, a textbook case of psychological phenomena.

The heave of Lawrence's chest falling under the control of a regulated breathing pattern relieves Heinrich on the surface; helping the young man gain a steady hold on his own balance, the German cannot say he is certain his conscious remains unbroken. "I'm sorry, Junge."

The last words Medic had uttered to the young man earlier that night were the very same ones that would welcome him into the world. Looking around to see the two are secluded save the company of various machines and research equipment, all whirring madly, lights flashing upon them in predictable repetition, their meanings unbeknownst completely from his perspective. By the third and rhythmic vibration of the large, teal coloured contraption, Scout allows a hint of volume to shape his shaking voice.

"I thought you said it would stop hurting -"

His voice is weaker than he wished, with a debilitating anger he finds himself unable to quash the more in sync his thoughts become with the now regulatory heart that beats in his chest, hardening the lump blockading his parched throat. "You told me it would stop,"

"Lawrence, I - I know, my boy…"

"You told me it wouldn't hurt anymore, Doc," Scout hisses somewhat desperately, his palms sweating, fanning over the width of his furrowed forehead. Even in his first moments of consciousness the young man had a fire to him the German a little more than twice his age could not douse, Medic adjusting his glasses and watching the young man's every move acutely. It was the familiar defiance with which Lawrence bores into the glareless glass of Heinrich's spectacles that he admired so. He watches Scout gain composure of his physical self, as if syncing his mind to his nervous system in careful steps not meant to be skipped. Heinrich sighs, ultimately, unable to produce a proper answer or excuse in the wake of Lawrence's scathing words. So it comes to a surprise when the man frowns slightly before looking the weary Scout in the eye for the first time in hours. "Vy didn't you run avay?" Heinrich questions quietly, and as he entertains the inquiry which Scout does not readily answer. He finds a staggering irritation heats his skin and temper like a festering fever. Bubbling sickly, his irritation stripping him of any compassionate calmness he would otherwise display on the recently revived young man's behalf.

"You vere so Goddamn close, Junge, vy ze Hell didn't you keep going?!" Heinrich spits, slamming his fist against the surgical table, the gesture sending a clipboard and thin pen to temporarily become airborne. Scout's ears pound, his body stiff as he holds his ground. "You had ze scattergun, you should have shot zem!"

"And how am I supposed to do that with you fuckin' crushin' me?! There's only so fuckin' much I can do with your whole entire body pinnin' my ass down!"

"It isn't like you haven't shot and killed in ze past, vy vas it so hard to do zis time around?!"

"Murder woulda been too messy, Doc, it ain't like I didn't think about it; I brought the gun for a reason. Shit woulda gotten outta hand if I'd killed anybody and ran away, there ain't no fuckin' doubt in my mind the Admin woulda had her dudes after me. Plus, all they were gonna do was capture me and bring me back, it ain't like it was life or death,"

Heinrich growls at the young man's retort, pacing with his upper body so rigidly straight only the thickness of his well built frame masks the vertical ribcage his jutting spine forms in the creased center of his back. The blue eyes that follow him with persistence are merciless, creating visual scars along his heavily scanned skin.

"It never is," he adds coldly.

"I vill have you know zat I am sorry I had to hinder your escape; I vas only doing my job," Heinrich nods, turning his head to face the young man who still lies in his stretcher. "A job I vould not have had to do had you had ze common sense to keep running ven ve vere so far behind you!"

"Well you know what? I know for next time,"

"Know vat," the German spits indignantly, Scout darting his eyes the instant Heinrich turns to meet them with weary ones of his own.

"To just keep goin', and not to stop for shit," Scout explains flatly.

"You almost had it, Lawrence," Heinrich sighs again, taking the clipboard into his hands, cradling it with the delicacy of a doting mother in his thick forearm. "I vas truly hoping zat attempt vould be ze one - sit up, Junge, I have to take your temperature, if I do not have measurements prepared by time Vallace returns it vill not be a good zing…"

"Hm," Scout smirks, chuckling quietly, reacting just barely as Medic uses different instruments to determine the young man's vitals, blinking slightly at the pokes and prods of cold, stainless steel indiscriminately invading his flesh. "You know, I ain't no mind reader, but somehow I just had a negative ass feelin' that it wasn't gonna get much father than that fuckin' shed,"

"So zen you saw it, stopped, and vent inside?!"

"Nah, I couldn't go any freakin' further, and that spotlight musta seen me, 'cause you guys were on my case not too long after. You guys were on that road to the city at first," Scout explains quietly, Medic's lower lip turning downward. "It vasn't a spotlight, it vas ze headlights of ze automobile; zey caught you in a glimpse, running in ze fields, and turned around to catch up,"

"Figures, huh," Lawrence sighs, and Heinrich raises his eyebrows, releasing a stern sigh as he slips the end of a glass thermometer under the fleshy warmth of Scout's already functioning armpits.

"Mein Gott, you smell atrocious, Junge…"

"I was fuckin' dead," Scout spits, Heinrich frowning smally and scrawling on his clipboard. "Maybe next time, though…"

"Next time vat,"

"I'll make it, and actually get the fuck out, you know?" Scout whispers, Heinrich meeting his eye sympathetically as the younger of the two men winces, the needle of a syringe puncturing his vein.

"And zat is vy you are still here; no more maybe, Lawrence. You must say to yourself zat next time vill be ze time,"

"It will be! I just gotta come up with a for real plan, not just pick a direction and run in it. Nah, this shit's way more complicated than that,"

"Hmm. To say ze least …" Medic growls, parting his eyelids and shining his handheld light in the tips of his long, bony fingers.

"But I might need your help,"

"Zen you might as vell stop zere, you know I cannot help you,"

"What?"

"Ze most I can do is buy you time, and even zen ze farzer along ze Professor gets in ze security of ze respawn chips, time vill not even matter,"

"Why the fuck can't you help me? Why can't you just sabotage the research with me?! Come on, I really think if we work together-"

"I have a job to do, Junge. I told you zis, sabotaging ze experiment vill only make zings vorse,"

"And what's your job got to do with it?!"

"Because I have no idea vat I have gotten myself into…"

"Then why not just get out of it?!"

"Because I have no idea vat I have gotten myself into…" the German repeats again, sighing slowly before stripping Scout of his shirt and placing the circular end of a stethoscope against his chest, cool to the touch. "And if you keep trying to run avay, ze Professor vill not be so merciful. It is a habit zat I zink you should keep to a minimum, and one he vill not take too kindly,"

"What's he gonna do, Doc - kill me?" Scout sneers, though Medic finds no humour in the Bostonian's sarcasm.

"You do not know vat he is capable of…"

"Well, it ain't like I haven't seen how it all ends anyway. Tell him to do his worst, if he wants to take it that fuckin' far. I ain't afraid of death,"

"All I am saying is zat if you are going to try to escape ze base again, zen you must make it count," Heinrich hisses, snapping gloves to fit tautly across the width of his large hands, bringing them to prod and stroke along Lawrence's naked chest. "No more of zis halfhearted nonsense; if you vant out, you have to mean it. Play your cards right and you vill make it, I know you vill…does it hurt ven I touch you?"

"Nah…" Scout whispers, head hung low to suggest he mulls over his comrade's words. He jerks slightly as the German presses down on his stomach and intestines, closing his eyes in heavy silence for a few seconds' time. "You're right though,"

"Of course I am," Heinrich smirks, scribbling hastily against his clipboard. "Ze Professor vill not keep giving you chances, and if his punishment is not up to ze Administrator's standards, Dmitri vill see to it you are adequately reprimanded,"

"I just gotta come up with a plan, that's all…" Scout nods, Heinrich applying various ointments along blotches of burns left behind on his now spotted pink skin from the shock torture.

"And a good one…"

"And here you are agreein' with me; don't you think that's kinda odd, Doc?"

"Ven I agreed to help ze Professor spearhead zis project I did not zink it vould be, vell…" Medic raises his eyebrows, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "You have to understand zat ze prospect of engineering immortality seemed like ze just zing to do at ze time…"

"Nah, the idea ain't bad, I just wish I wasn't the research slut,"

Heinrich's lips slope to crease pointedly on the end of his thin mouth, the tendons of his neck allowing him room to comfortably stretch his head to and fro, swinging his head in disbelief like a solemn pendulum. "…Zhe time of deaz vas approximately 11:39pm on Tuesday, June 13th, 1967. Time of revival approximately 12:17am on Wednesday, June 14th, 1967. A whole zirty five minutes longer zan initially presumed ze respawn system vould take. Cause of deaz: an accumulative total of over eleven zousand volts of energy, endured for ze approximate lenz of zirteen seconds,"

"Still ain't the worst," Scout rolls his eyes. "Better than the fuckin' fire pit,"

"It vould appear ze respawn system did vork to heal you of all maladies, so it seems zat portion of ze procedure is still vorking as intended. Ze healing chip vorked fine, zough it took fifteen minutes for ze burns to clear up around ze zroat, neck, and hands. Ze teleportation chip, vile responsive, did not vork period, zough I zink it may have somezing to do viz ze chip in ze medibay. I vill present ze idea to ze Professor in ze morning,"

"Nah, don't, it's the only way I can escape…"

"Lawrence…"

"I know, I know…"

"…As for your physical attributes…" Medic growls, eyeing Lawrence sternly over his glasses. "…you veigh 140 pounds boz before and after deaz, blood pressure is normal, as is heart rate. Body temperature appears regulated. It would seem ze physical aspects of ze system; i.e., ze revival and complete restoration of ze physical self is functioning, if only at a slower rate zan ze final intended result. Better zan not at all but it vill certainly interest ze Professor to hear zat ze Ringer chip is so delayed,"

"Great," Scout snaps weakly, accepting the help from Heinrich, who brings Lawrence to stand comfortably upon his feet. "Sounds like another month's worth of fuckin' testing,"

"I know…" Medic whispers nearly inaudibly. "Eizer you plan an escape, or you just try to hold out until it's all complete,"

"I can't wait here no longer Doc, I'm sorry. There's no way in Hell I'm stayin' here for this -"

Both men turn their heads quickly as the same portly figure bumbles through the thick steel door, sans the rubber suit, gloves and helmet tucked under his short, thick arms. Pleased to see the Professor in creased slacks, coupled with a checkered shirt tucked primly into the waist line of his trousers, Lawrence draws from his outfit the conclusion that he intends to save any further experimentation for morning at the very least.

His bald head creases along the forehead and scalp, skin folded and doubled over in the fault lines of concentration. Scout scowls from uncertainty the longer he studies the man in his state of disgruntled contemplation, Wallace sniffing uncouthly, using the back of his fleshy hand to wipe the tipped end of his long, protruding nose. His mind scrambles to prepare himself for the roulette of events Wallace Shelley's entrance into the lab could have triggered, swirled raucously as his neurons race to formulate brief snippets of pictorial torture in the back of his mind. His silent, stony presence, one quieter than Scout personally had ever come to expect from the usually talkative and relatively pleasant man (as pleasant as the bringer of daily death could be), impresses him with an unshakable weight. As he watches slightly yellowed teeth slip from below the threshold of his thin, light pink upper lip, diving downward to gnaw and claw at the already irritated and highly botched anatomy of the lower, Lawrence gulps, the variation of routine unfurling at the seams, each thread a spearhead of unpredictability.

Like the two of them, Wallace's nose does not wrinkle upon entering the lab, desensitized to the abhorrent scent of strongly acidic sanitizer and a faint smell reminiscent of axel grease. His eyes do not blink to adjust to the dimmed lighting, lighting that usually blinded them all, leaving them with a feral instinct of reliance, Scout no longer functioning as the sole and lone animal left to paw at their feet, silently pleading for the end.

It isn't until an audible sputter stumbles from Scout's pursed lips that it hits him that he'd held his breath for well over a minute; an entirety of sixty seconds that leave a cracked heat to splinter in the young man's lungs only after the fact, charring his puckered cheeks as he scrambles to retrieve the pace of his throbbing heart. Heinrich clearly waits as well, though only in patience. The German's square jaw latches to his upper, and his eyelids brush over his oculars calmly.

Lawrence's breathing skips in his mouth as jagged stones skip over the sea. Wallace tucks his flame retardant suit on top of a metal crate, and turns to face the two comrades, a swell of air in his chest.

"Well! Marino certainly was not impressed!" Wallace squeaks, his voice pitched high with the eerie chill of mirth that always embodied its timbre no matter the occasion. Scout darts his gaze as Wallace turns his round, sunken hazel eyes to meet his own. "He was not impressed at all, as I'm sure you can imagine, Heinrich,"

The German nods, parting his lips slowly as from the corner of his eye he catches sight of Lawrence and his discrete attempt to slip into a quieter corner of the still dimly lit lab whose lack of blinding light drapes a sheen of abject terror onto the olive greens and cool metallic greys of the medical feng shui. "He will want to have words with you later, Lawrence," the man warns sternly, needing no visual cue of the young man's presence to address him outright. Back turned to the others in the room, Wallace's face remains physically unperturbed as he studies the notes upon Heinrich's discarded clipboard in silence for thirty seconds. Tossing the rectangular object onto a desk, the Professor drags a hand languidly across the length of his rounded, pudgy features, the creamy white of his warm skin reddening from an assured stagger of aggravation. His untoned stomach heaves with each sigh he expels through his nostrils, the thin ducts whistling as air flows through them quietly. "In regards to your fifth attempt at escaping, as well as your interruption of the testing that took place tonight as well,"

Lawrence, who snuggles the shadowed comfort of the area just behind the German's back, does not respond, least of all from surprise. "We will be lucky if the Respawn Project continues to even receive funding at this rate,"

"Ze zought ozervise does not seem to alarm you, Herr Shelley; you are taking razer vell,"

"Fear, anger, alarm - Heh!" Wallace chuckles, resonating in an artificial warmth in his stomach and chest. "Only a rational man succeeds, Heinrich. A rational, patient man is the only man best suited for science. These projects - as well as any other project I have conducted in the past - take time. Time, trial, error, all things that I am willing to commit to should my dedication bear positive, functional results," Wallace explains lightly, peering behind the German's shoulder at the quiet Scout. "Even if my resolve should be tested by outside sources,"

Wallace wheels out a dark leather stretcher, and Scout can feel the blood race in his veins in swift streaks.

"Place him upon it if you would, Schmelzer."

Lawrence exchanges a worried glance with the steel jawed German, with whom he forges a silent understanding; hidden in their locked gaze is Medic's inaudible plea that Scout complies for the time being, the young man deducing that defiance in the current moment would get him nowhere, even if he could afford it after his display hitherto the current moment. Regardless, Scout only obliges halfheartedly.

Heinrich sets him upon the stretcher bluntly once certain Scout would not object, though a careful arm is placed onto his shoulder, a tender undertone coupled with the fatherly gesture. Twenty seconds go by as Wallace straps the young man into the contraption proper, the leather bands cutting into his arms, and chest in the form of dark purple, half moon indentations.

"I zought for sure ve vould be vaiting until tomorrow to continue viz more experimentation…"

"The results of Lawrence's last respawn intrigue me all too much to leave it up to tomorrow, Mr. Schmelzer. What is this about the technology itself taking thirty five minutes to kick in? I seem to recall the Respawn process as a whole took as little as three minutes just two days ago!" Wallace inquires brashly, sliding starch covered gloves over the width of his doughy hands.

"I - I do not know, Professor!" Medic shrugs, slightly takenaback as Wallace takes it upon himself to remeasure Lawrence's vitals, only to produce similar readings as those of Heinrich's earlier calculations. "Zhis time, ze teleportation aspect did not trigger period, and ze Ringer technology only began revival and healing fifteen minutes after he vas clinically pronounced dead,"

"I know, and I do not like it!" Wallace squeaks again, his voice cracking at the crescendo of his exclamation of distaste. "It simply does not make sense! And if the Scout here continues to misbehave, there is no doubt in my mind Mr. Marino will suggest that TF Industries reduces the amount of funding we receive on this project," the man sneers in uncharacteristically darkness. "Can you believe the man threatened me with such an idea?! Did he forget who brought TF Industries the Dead Ringer?! Or half the brain behind your Engineer's teleporter?! That man has some nerve I'll tell you! Threatening myself with the implication the Administrator would take her stock out of me, there's no one else she would trust with these experiments, Heinrich!"

"He has very little regard in ze vay of manners; hardly anyone likes him,"

"It isn't about popularity contests, Schmelzer, it is all about making impressions! Whether or not he's the most hated person in all of TF Industries is irrelevant in so far it is him I have to answer to for more time, and more funding," Wallace explains quickly, covering Scout's mouth swiftly with the palm of his hand as he uses a scalpel to stab once into the young man's exposed bicep, taking a sample of the blood that arises from the puncture wound.

"Professor, ze Scout is clearly exhausted!" Heinrich sputters quietly, eyeing the young man sadly as his thrashing ceases, and he collapses his weight in defeat against the stretcher.

"Well he should have thought twice about his daring runaway! Research will resume as planned tomorrow, but as it is, I want an explanation for why the teleportation aspect of the technology is not functioning, and namely before the Scout has to speak before Mr. Marino,"

"I simply do not zink it is vise, ve do not vant to overload him!"

"Check him for cuts if you would, Heinrich. See to it that he has not attempted to dig the chips out again," Wallace continues lightly, Medic observing the young man's body for gashes and discoloured indents that suggest self inflicted gouging in an attempt to remove the three miniscule chips embedded along his arms and chest.

"Watch him too, I am going to get the monitor," Wallace explains, slipping through the metallic door, leaving Heinrich alone with the solemn Lawrence, who lies with his back against the stretcher, his blue eyes lidded in his quiet attempt to remain at peace internally.

"You have not attempted it again, have you -" Heinrich hisses quietly to the young man, who holds his silence in the wake of his question. The Bostonian had certainly tried removing the chips himself in the past, the implication that he's resumed his attempts once again would not surprise him.

"It don't matter, Doc…" Scout grumbles, watching blood dribble from the puncture wound in thick streaks across the width of his bicep, pooling onto the concrete of the floor underneath them both.

"…Ze healing technology of ze Respawn system must heal your scars, zen…"

"Forget it…"

"Please do not attempt again, Lawrence. Run if you must, but please do not try to remove ze chips from your body," Heinrich whispers, sanitizing the puncture wound, wrapping white gauze around the width of his bound arm, thick with the pressure of the young man's insides throbbing tautly against his lean flesh.

"So," Wallace whistles, wheeling a heavy module in through the door, back arched as he implements the whole of his fleshy, out of shape body weight in order to guide the gaggle of buttons and monitors into his desired location. "Time to figure out just why your teleportation chip isn't functioning at all, eh?"

Scout sighs, his eyes on Heinrich for the sake of his own mind as stubbly, sweaty nubs apply electrodes to his forehead and biceps, even going so far as to lift up his shirt and place them along his chest as well, suckering to his breast with difficulty the wetter the skin becomes with his own sweat. Sleek like oil, he slowly becomes doused in a sheet of it. Every inch of his skin able to secrete does so, sweat dribbling from his porous body, murky drops scaling the length of his torso and seeping into the already salty brown of his leather constraints.

His heart rate bulges, extending beyond the warm cavity in his chest, expanding ever upwards in green, tipped spikes that forever repeat in a linear fashion on one of the many monitors upon Wallace's contraption. Were the young man under interrogation he would have no choice but to plead guilty. With a mind left to dwell silently with the same agony that plagues the beating of his anxious heart, he feels Heinrich place a doting hand on his shoulder, their backs turned to him outright, eyes plastered on every thin stroke of information there was to be gathered from the omniscient lab equipment.

He hated it; a wave of wrath overcomes the entirety of his senses, Scout left to lie bound in an experimental Hell, blinded and unaware what for the intrusions of his body and soul really were. As a goose upon a silver platter, he'd been presented before death, a meal to be consumed, helpless and charred and marinated for complacency whilst swirling in its shadowed jaws. The path of digestion, the mire of acids left to erode at his body and bones and melt him away into ever after, he accepts gracefully and without hesitancy; he sits however, alive and awake, at the height of sensory perception, as Heinrich and Wallace bicker in an unintelligible garble, pointing to screens and monitors and buttons before the Professor finally unlatches the young man. Heinrich and the pudgy man stand huddled in scientific secrecy over the clipboard, the German adjusting his glasses, his lips curling into flattened flaps as he pronounces muddled German syllables from which only Heinrich himself can derive any semblance of meaning.

"…seems the heat from today's earlier experiment with the flame thrower might have temporarily caused the teleportation chip to malfunction. Nothing a brief surgery cannot alter, I suppose; Lawrence, if you will report back to us after your meeting in the morning - "

"Nah," he snaps flatly, fists balled. Tearing the electrodes from his body, Scout stands defiantly on his feet, staring the two men down scathingly, the stretcher between them a shallow mire of a partition. Lawrence leans forward, his wet, wrinkled palms clamping down so hard onto the padded gurney that his fingers convulse in slight tremors against the smooth mass as physical vibrato. Medic meets the challenge in his comrade's striking blue eyes, and he slowly wills him not to do it, mouthing the sentiment with his thin lips, the desperation hidden in the elevated plea of his eyebrows. "I'm done here."

"Lawrence - Lawrence, please zink about vat it is you are saying!" Medic growls, placing the clipboard down against the gourney and starting forward as if attempting to inch closer. "Ve talked about zis, please!"

"I'm done," Scout replies flatly, starting to the door without hesitation, his muscular legs steeled in determination.

"No, no, no, no, you most certainly are not, boy, you have cost me enough as it is! My reputation, the fate of BLU is on the lines!" Wallace explains, his entire head and scalp quickly growing red once more. "Do not lose sight of what it is you are doing, my boy, as a soldier of BLU you are committing yourself to what will be assured victory once we have the chips in line!"

"Yeah, and I'm over here payin' the price and no one gives a fuck! No one's gonna think of That BLU Scout when they're too busy not dyin' - I ain't getting' a statue for none of this shit!"

"Ridiculous, boy! The entirety of BLU will thank you when the time comes, your dedication to this research will only result in your comrades no longer having to fear the potential of death, RED will be a shadow of a threat when it is all said and done, Lawrence! The world will sing your name with BLU as the saviour you cradle in your arms!"

Scout sneers, the bald man practically reduced to tears, the weight of his hoakey words pressing forced wetness from the dips of their ducts.

"Right, so you lock me up and swear me to secrecy in the mean time -"

"It's for your own safety, Scout! If RED got word of what we are developing they would kill you!"

"Maybe I wish they fuckin' would!" Lawrence roars, guitless as Medic slowly brings his forehead to the palm of his hands. "This shit isinhumane, Doc, and you're just - you're lettin' him kill me every single fuckin' day over this shit!"

"Scout, it is the means we have to go to in order to test this all! This project is nothing like your Engineer's teleporter, or my tinkering with the Dead Ringer - this is something much greater, you are something much greater! You are a champion of bravery! Taking this fall for your comrades, so brave and committed-!"

"He doesn't even fuckin' care about BLU, Doc! He just wants his name published in fuckin' journals, he wants a Peace Prize when really he's just makin' this shit drag forever -!"

Lawrence stops mid sentence, the Professor bringing a heavy hand to shatter his jaw in the form of a back handed slap. Scout steels his throbbing mouth, eyes narrowed, the flesh of his cheek inflamed with an ember red to match. He says nothing, stifling stinging tears of his own, a breech of emotion dammed behind a stockpile of stoic strength the young man refuses to let either of them tear down.

"I have been a loyal and dedicated scientist to BLU longer than you have been alive!" Wallace whispers tonelessly, bringing the pointed tip of his sausage link of fingers to brush dangerously against the tip of Scout's nose. "My prowess surpassed Peace Prizes decades ago; slowly, compassion for my subjects will only come to rival my antipathy," the Professor spits, Scout jerking his arm away as a powerful clench seeks to usurp physical control of it. "I like to consider myself a kind, calm man, Lawrence Fitzpatrick, but I will not stand here in silence whilst you and Marino take it upon yourselves to question my skill or intentions,"

"I don't give a fuck what you do, who the fuck you are, how long you've been who you fuckin' are," Scout's voice shakes, his jaw instantly aching as he parts his lips, his lips dry, brittley forming words that waver in execution, grounded however in pronounced conviction stemming darkly from his throat. "Point is I'm done. I don't care what your intentions are, I'm done. I ain't dyin' for this shit anymore. It fuckin' hurts, and it ain't worth the pain. You said you wouldn't let it get this far with me; you said you wouldn't have to kill me, and you do it every day. You're a lyin' bastard, and I'm through with this shit,"

Medic sighs heavily, the German swiping a hand through his hair.

"Plain and simple."

"So then what, you expect to walk out of there and have me just leave and forget about it? As done with myself as you may be, Scout, I still have technology to develop. Classified technology, not even your comrades know of it! Do you think I would let you walk out of that door without repercussion?"

"You only got shit to develop as long as the Administrator thinks you do; she can stop givin' you the resources to do this any time,"

"Helen Ingram backs my idea entirely, no matter what her sleazy snakes like Marino try to threaten me with; and should you choose to back out of this project I can guarantee you she would not support your endeavour. You were picked as a subject for a reason, Scout -"

"So what - pick another Scout at another base,"

" - but the chips inside of you are worth more to BLU, TF Industries, Ingram, and myself than you will ever be. Within you are the only prototypes of this technology in the world, and I will stop at nothing to insure their safety,"

"You act like I don't fuckin' know that; the way you let the others die in the earlier stages was more than I needed to know about what kinda man you are. I ain't impressed by your Dead Ringer, or your teleporters. Half o'that was Rick's shit anyway. The teleporters were his inventions -"

"They never would have seen the light of day without me! No one would have funded his patent without my cosignature! And look at how much better BLU has become as a result! Armand can sneak about and fake death, your team's success has drastically increased as a result of my influence!"

"Rick and Armand ain't bein' tortured, they ain't locked up in a fuckin' basement for half the week!"

"Scout…" Heinrich whispers, the German's hands still streaking across his weary forehead. "Please zink about vat you are saying. You got out zere and try to break avay like zis and it vill only get vorse…"

"Is that a threat, Doc?" Scout whimpers, fists still balled at his hips, the bloodied bandage wrapped around his arm now dyed a dulled, rusty red. Medic averts his gaze as Wallace produces a smaller contraption from his pants pocket.

"I have had enough of this nonsense, I will hear no more of this child's back talk! Silence him, Heinrich, or I shall have to do it myself,"

"Silence me, either of you,"

The thin, unarmed young man with the pasty face and blanched skin poses only a sliver of the threat he hopes to convey with bared teeth and balled fists, narrowed eyes homed onto the two men who could overpower him with no effort should Scout choose to escalate the situation. A simple flick of one of the three buttons on the heavyset man's controller sparking an instant fit of unconsciousness in Scout, who falls to the floor, cracking his head upon it bluntly due to the mass of his body collapsing within itself indiscriminately. Heinrich gasps, instantly lowering to his knees and scrutinizing the point of trauma as if it were a message to be decoded, the German lapping at the pooling blood with as much pressure as the tips of his fingers provide him.

"I'm sorry, doctor, but sometimes these things just have to be done!" Wallace explains with the usual lightness, hoisting the limp young man off the floor, dropping him back onto the gurney. "I figured he would grow defiant somewhere around the Beta stages; they usually do," he nods, strapping the Bostonian in tightly, Heinrich shaking his head quietly, doing all he can to keep his concentration centric on the suddenly highly intriguing notes upon his clipboard. "Hence why I installed a fourth chip I can use to knock him out at will just two days ago! I could only read his behaviour as of late as a tell tale sign, I'd rather nip it in the bud as soon as possible. Still, that was my first time using it! Wonderful that it all went so smoothly, yes? I figured it would be better to wait until we were in the Medibay to tinker with brand new technology!" he chuckles, Medic stoically unresponsive.

"Now, I do not want you to find me a bad man, Schmelzer," Wallace explains lightly, an innocent sigh flying as sweet though insincere comfort through his lips. "Miss Ingram did not send me to this base in order to make enemies and leave behind bad impressions! She sent me here to do a job, and that is all I am doing. I was instructed to develop this technology, with no cost too great; if the boy should be subjected to what he considers to be torture, well, then that is that. I am afraid there is nothing I can do to combat that reality. Tomorrow, after his meeting with Marino on behalf of his ornery behaviour, I will need you to perform surgery on his chest so that I may take a better look at the teleportation and respawn chips. As you can see, the new chip in his right arm works fine," he nods, gesturing to the knocked out Scout on the stretcher. "It is a shame that I have to even put the fainting function to use, but he gives me no choice.

It would behoove you to distance yourself from him emotionally; comrade though he may be, his attitude toward this whole project will only slow progress down. So please try to look alive, Doc! We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow! The miniscule technicalities are nothing and a half to identify and fix! At this rate, Respawn should be a global function for BLU in no more than six months. Good night, Doctor."

The bald man leaves the room without a final word, leaving a complex set of keys on the metallic table by Heinrich's side. The German closes his eyes before turning off the lights, releasing a heavy sigh along with a final glance back at the sleeping Scout.

"….it vas a varning."


	3. Sovereign

Armand twirls the rounded berry in his lanky hands, the dark blue of the thin juice creasing in the wrinkles of his finger prints, each drop a taste of gin, a pierce on his tongue. Fingered indents bruise its surface, the white chalkiness of its naturally given exterior smudging, vulnerable as virgin skin. Green cones having fallen off the berries' originating stem litter the floor below the heels of his dress shoes, shined and glitzed in dapper effort, a chance to display the heavily-cologne scented nines to which he chooses to dress. The Frenchman brings his puckered lips to kiss the drops themselves like flawless maidens. The bittered tang peaks at the tip of his tongue, and his teeth sear at the heat of the juniper's spice.

"Hope y'don't mind if I crack a window,"

Sniper needn't wait for any sort of cue from his dinner guest, the Frenchman glaring upward at his lover in disgust as the man stretches the entirety of his upper body over the length of their gourmet array of edible dishes. The Australian hacks the saliva lodged deep in his throat the closer his long, pointed nose comes to the hot mouth of the BLU Spy, outlined in a ring of diluted juniper juice like important words soaked in the neon of a highlighter, careful to miss neither a detail nor pore. Armand grimaces, pushing the Australian back into his seat with the palm of an ungloved hand. A humid wall of summer air filters its way through the small, rectangular window in the camper van's kitchen, and Armand darts his hazel eyes over the length of Jack's heaving chest, scrutinizing the red of Jack's cheeks as if they were painted on in invisible ink.

"I am not sure what for you zhink it is necessary to ask for my consent in zhis particular instance," the man scoffs, gesturing a large hand to a juniper garnished portion of potato puree, sitting upon the table atop a yellowed, imitation porcelain plate. "You 'ave already taken it upon yourself to completely neglect zhe dinner I made for you wizhout my permission,"

"Oh?! Didn't know it was Sass o'bloody clock 'lready! Where does the time go when you're havin' this much fun?!" Jack snaps with an instant edge to his voice, which scratches harshly, his voice box growing hoarse as the man coughs into his arms.

"Fun is right, wizh zhe way you 'ave 'ardly spoken a word to me all evening,"

"Sorry, mate - too busy tryin' t'deal with a closed esophagus at the moment,"

"Even zhe potatoes aren't worzh your attention; You 'ave not even touched zhem,"

"What a real good reason t'menstruate all 'bout the van, eh? Over a vegetable!"

"I am saying zhat if you neizher like potatoes nor plan to eat zhem, let me know before I plan a meal for us bozh! And especially refrain from claiming to enjoy zhem if you clearly do not,"

"I ain't touchin' 'em 'cause o'those bloody berries! I told y'I can't stomach 'em, they make me break out 'nd clog my throat!"

"Zhey are just garnishes, Jack, zhey are only zhere for appearance and nozhing else!"

"Right, fine, pardon me for bein' careful!"

"I zhought we surpassed zhe do not eat what Armand prepares because 'e is an enemy Spy part of our relationship six monzhs ago," Spy snaps, crossing his legs primly, the limbs steeled as the Frenchman holds them taut so as to clench his wavering muscles still.

"Y'really turnin' it into one o'those trust talks, mate? I don't care if 's you or Mother Theresa makin' me the bloody things - I can't eat 'em with your death berries sprinkled all over 'em like that!"

"No, I guess not. Simply rolling zhem off zhe meal would just be too much to ask of you, non?"

"Right, the same way I can jus' roll off a p'tential visit t'the hospital, eh?!"

"You don't even try!"

"Right, 'cause it's always about Armand, Armand, Armand! Y'mean me watchin' y'play with the damn berry for a half hour, gettin' juice about 'nd whatever else ain't"

"Hmph - it 'asn't been about me in monzhs, Jack Sweetwater Mundy," Spy retorts sourly, whistling a thin stream of his light weight, European cigarette through the perfectly sculpted "o" of his thin lips. "Do not even try to guilt me for feeling neglected,"

"God dammit," Jack growls, taking the entire plate and using his spoon to shove monstrous amounts of potato in his mouth unceremoniously, the mashed vegetable frothing from between his thin lips like culinary rabies. "There - y'happy now, y'wanka?!" Jack sneers, chomping his teeth against the mashed potatoes, unreserved and uncouth as puddles of it drip against the wooden table. "Bloody delicious!"

"You are acting like a child," Spy grimaces, pushing his plate forward as bits of food fly from Jack's mouth and land upon it. "Do not eat zhem if it is such a problem,"

"'Nd what, risk havin' t'leave you pissed off for the rest o'the night?! A closed windpipe's worth it if it means not havin' t'listen t'your moanin',"

"So zhen you choose to be'ave like a filzhy Bushman, instead of addressing zhe problem like an adult. Typical Jack,"

"Well 's funny, considerin' a Bushman's 'bout as close as you're gonna get t'summin' me up in one word, Armand," Jack spits, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and glaring at the Frenchman who remains seated across from him. "How dare I be so uncultured, with fuckin' allergies I can do fuck all about -"

"You are taking me out of context, Jack," Armand rolls his eyes, averting his gaze as Jack sputters again, his cheeks expanding as a result of the juniper berries working as a catalyst of his sensitive allergies. "And frankly I am not in zhe mood to argue wizh you over such pointless zhings,"

"We wouldn't have to if you'd shoved a tampon up your vag before makin' dinner,"

"Classy," Armand sneers, picking up his plate and raising his eyebrows at the man who remains seated in his chair. "Simply classy. I will promptly remember to bring a modest supply of tampons to dinner zhe next time we decide to share yet anozher wonderful evening such as zhis," he rolls his eyes, hidden behind unblemished lids, covering their almond shape behind a haughty curtain of flesh. "Zhat is, if I ever find zhe desire wizhin me to 'ave dinner wizh a toddler any time soon,"

"Right on ya, mate," Jack barks in a short quip of false cheeriness, his long legs bent just enough at the knees to allow the front legs of his wooden chair to remain steady and airborne, the back ones hinged and teetering on the metallic floor of the camper kitchenette. "Jus' don't forget t'mush it up for me before hand, 'lright?"

Spy growls, rolling the sleeves of a perfectly ironed dress shirt up the length of his hairy forearms, the cornflower blue of the silky cotton saturated in a darker blue under the water used to soak the Australian's dinner plates. Sniper's lips stretch endlessly in a thin line across the width of his long mouth, his black eyebrows pointed just slightly to form a sutble valley in the center of his sunbaked, wrinkled forehead. Neither speak, Jack allowing his grey eyes to watch the trim fitted fabric of the dress shirt crinkle stiffly the more harshly Armand brings his arm to work at the food that clumps defiantly to the dishware.

It genuinely surprised him the Frenchman had not requested rubber gloves of some sort, slightly murky dishwater having been irksome and filthy against his otherwise radiant skin. The spotted reds of another man's death had lost the oomph to its winded impact years ago, impressions of murder and its damning dye washable both in the basic scent of detergent as well as the stoic cleansing of an otherwise unperturbed conscience, unphased by murder when the concept itself became synonymous with the idea of "work". A nine to fivish gig still bedecked with the idea of impressionism and well suited shoulders, clothes tailored from the fabrics of a reputable brand, rooted in old, rich white tradtion. Still, Armand's handsome face deflates as he brings a large hand to reemerge from the depths of the slate tinted sink, the water only semi-translucent, a state mostly attributable to the undissolved bubbles that float atop the grey stillness of the wetness like silent watchers, suspended on the estranged manner in which the two men choose to acknowledge the other; or not at all.

Jack shakes his head, the back of which rests supported by the palms of the hands that engulf it, elbows stretched vertically in order to feign a position of nonchalant causality. He'd been too intimately involved with the slightly younger man of the opposite faction to know that he did not expect some sort of noticeable acknowledgement of his work. Even if Jack were in the spirits to do so, the bloated cheeks that puff outward in a display of allergenic roundness prevent his lips from puckering any sentences worth the effort of congratulation in regards to a small effort house chore. Like Armand's stuffy, silent demand that he be revered for his voluntary fit of half hearted helpfulness, Jack allows the squeak of the wooden chair he still dares to balance to beg for recognition of his own self centered plight.

A soft rustle jostles them both from their moody, self righteous inner monologues utterly bemoaning the other; Armand's dark blue suit jacket slumps against the cool floor, the man bending with ease to retrieve it. The dapper duck tail cut of his hair swirls in streaks of white bands of light as his head swings in and out of direct influence of the lamp above. Without further ado, the man pincers the only half smoked cigarette in between his lips, slipping his slender arms into the silken comfort of his suit, the waistcoat of which remains perfectly visible, the suit jacket left unbuttoned.

Jack nicks his swollen head, allowing a croak of an "aye" to wheeze through the pinprick of his inflamed throat, his eyes nearly swollen shut. Armand stifles a deep chuckle, left to fester mentally in the forefront of his mind at the sight of his inflated significant other. The simple cotton of Sniper's red shirt strains under their rolled down cuffs, his wrists appearing to bake as if injected with rapidly rising yeast. Long, thin fingers expand as if pumped with hearty heaps of whipped cream.

The strawberry red of the broken out skin that stretches across them triggers a childhoodish memory of Spy's, one commonly associated with Montpellierean summers and cranberry drizzle dressed lazily over vanilla cakes only allowed to be enjoyed after a fully consumed lunch. The copper tinged mingle of dirt and gunpowder caked in the man's ungroomed fingernails are quick to jump at the man like easily stepped upon shards of broken glass, ultimately destroying the fallacy that the digits of the Sniper could be misconstrued as edible in another place and time.

Seductive allure was the specialty of a seasoned Spy such as Armand Quincompoix; when the Frenchman glides to the camper door, accompanied by the gentleman of a Bushman that was his enemy and lover all the same, it is no stretch to believe that the turbulence in his hazel eyes, the glistening sheen of hilarity triggered by schadenfreude, cracks the glacier of severed emotion, an ease of iron belting against chilled porcelain.

Armand laughs at Sniper's fattened visage, wondering how he brings his hands to grip around the knob in order to open it for him properly. Balaclava in hand, he allows his other to be taken by that of Jack's, the leather glove chaffing at the Australian's touch. Neither of them utter an apology, both also believing to have been in the right while the other sat inarguably submerged in the Challenger Deep of Wrong and Fault. Regardless, a begrudging understanding overcomes them both, the two puckering for a shallow kiss that lasts only a second in length, accelerated by the already thrusted condition of Jack's sickly, purple lips.

The Frenchman subdues his irritation at his ruined vision of a romantic dinner with the untamed Bushman of a RED Sniper, allowing his hand to slip from Jack's grip as he makes a calm though no less purposeful and careful trip back to the BLU base, knowing he goes unnoticed; a Spy always went unnoticed when he meant to.


	4. Nomenclature

The hasty thwack of a bulging manilla folder of primly organized files slams against the table once more, and Scout still finds himself unable to sit at full, upright attention, even whilst catching glimpses upon records of his own death upon the slivers of documents whose edges are unexposed on the sides.

"Stay with me Scout, we still have another ten minutes' worth of questioning!"

The venomously pleasant falsetto of the man's voice rings in the depths of Scout's ear like a toxic echo, sound waves splintering cavernously, his brain rushing to interpret them in headache inducing pulsations he can actually sense. The strange chip Wallace had implanted unbeknownst for the host himself had without a doubt myriad side effects; the olive skin of Dmitri Marino registers itself as a messy watercolour of soft yellows in Lawrence's muddled sense of vision, waves of drunken intensity over coming him each time his eyes attempt to adjust to the fluorescent light the Italian had turned on in an attempt to keep the young man he questions awake. Had he the energy to protest, Scout would have told his subordinate that his choice in lighting was nothing short of counter productive.

The suit, a tasteful dark blue that compliments his Mediterranean curls and acutely peaceful green eyes, was the very same Scout's comrade Armand would wear during formal BLU functions such as these. The more discreet suits he was used to seeing the man don in battle, toned down colours of coal and ashy blacks, would have been much easier on the eyes, and how his dilated pupils yearned that with the snap of magical fingers the Frenchman's bastard of a mentor would change at the literal blink of them.

Scout hiccups, falling forward against the wooden table; the sedative effects of the Professor's latest chip seemed just as faulty as the rest of the Beta project. Dmitri tisks, propping the young man up in his stiff wooden chair before jotting a quickened hand's worth of notes and comments before turning his attention back onto the Bostonian.

"…ever think about these things in advanced, Wallace?" Marino questions flamboyantly under his breath, the Professor whom he curses still engaged with a most flustered Heinrich in the research facility below. "One would think a seasoned man of science such as himself would have a bit more regard for the vessel housing his precious Respawn System," Dmitri reports in hasty mumblings the more he writes, eyebrows lost in his recently clipped curls.

"Trust me, Scout, I am on your side! The man is an utter bafoon and I must say, I am wholeheartedly unimpressed by what this visitation has yielded me!" he explains, the drowsy Scout wholly uninterested and only half conscious. "Helen Ingram and the rest of TF Industries can praise him as they wish, but I know that man is nothing but an intellectual leech! Half the designs and science - no - over half the designs and science behind those teleporters and the very same Dead Ringer I implement were the brainchildren of this base's very own Rick Conagher - not sure if you were aware, Lawrence, with this knowledge being protected behind confidential and whatnot - yet you only see a credit in his name the size of a footnote, and a Nobel Prize in his name the size of - well - nothing,"

Scout slumps in his chair, his narrow, lidded eyes plastered onto Dmitri's mass.

"Every time I hear the word brilliant used to describe Wallace Shelley I swear I grow queasy to my stomach! Even more so if it is Helen Ingram who uses it! Poor Rick, he's got a great mind, that man does - to see him so powerless, as his ideas and science and methods, his inventions get stolen from underneath his very nose - then again that is the risk you run, working as a researcher under a more powerful man's laboratory, hmm?" the Italian addresses Lawrence chipperly again, who parts his full lips out of zombie like reaction. "Legally Shelley can claim the science for his own, for better or worse - and though I most certainly rue her blatant disregard for the integrity of science, I absolutely admire her ruthlessness as a business woman! Pay some obscure Engineer on a single base large amounts of royalties to develop this science fiction hoo hah, or contract a madman whose cost is nothing but the inflation of his own disillusioned ego? I swear, Lawrence - half the time I wonder if that woman is a genius or just a sick old bitch!"

Dmitri wallows in the glow of his own monologue, even without the applause or admiration of a cheering audience. With a cheerful, final stroke, the man sets his clipboard upon the cherry wood table before addressing Scout head on. "And the entire time I know the answer."

In a frayed perception of utterly surreal juxtaposition, Scout's eyes saturate the entirety of the room in the extremity of vibrancy; the mortar grey of the brick walls undulate as if breathing and real, alive; for the first time in five minutes, his upper lashes plunk downward to meet the black twins that adorn the bottom, eyes tearing up at the sense of relief. His body internally flinches the more of a strain he allows the piercing whiteness of the overhead lamp to command over the whole of his dark blue, dried out eyes. As they close, and his mind loses itself against the backdrop of thoughtless black, a theoretical hand no longer able to grip the fabric of a tattered life vest, white imprints of illuminating ghosts trigger themselves in neon flashes at the forefront of his vision.

"Again, I cannot stand him, Lawrence; the state of your condition during this meeting is just another red stroke underneath the long since bolded name to which I have taken a serious hatred. I understand your attempt last night to run away from him - that you have waited ten whole months into your guinea pigging to actually put a plan into fruition astounds me, I must say! Were you I would have been gone the instant I knew the Admin had me down on the list to be one. Still, your behaviour is slowing down progress. The further this jumbled mess of a project progresses to the end, the closer I come to no longer having to deal with the man. The closer the end of the research Hell will be for you.

The more you struggle and resist, Fitzpatrick, the more difficult and convoluted the entirety of the situation will become, the more money, resources, and time we will lose, and, ultimately, the I will be sent here so as to deal with you in a manner deemed appropriate by Helen Ingram, who will only lose her own temper with you in time,"

Scout's breath shakes, the man's sentences too long and too ominous for his dulled mind to comprehend. The threat, nestled in the tone of his albeit sing song though lowered pitch of a voice, remains unmistakably present nonetheless.

"We both despise him, Lawrence. Even your bumbling comrade Schmelzer can only take so much, sitting in the bitch throne in the midst of all this. Shelley has no friends outside of himself and Ingram, and I can tell you that those are the only two he needs. You, on the other hand, need every friend you can hold onto. Should you continue with your newfound behaviour, I will have to make my visitation a regular thing, and I can guarantee you will not like me the more I have to come around; that idiot can put a damper on my mood.

This interrogation is bringing us nothing as is; your condition is too impenetrable for me to stir any sort of intelligent responses from you. I will attempt it again in the morning, providing Schmelzer or Shelley find some sort of antidote for your catatonic sluggishness. I can only warn you, Scout," Dmitri sighs, bringing his folder to his chest and glaring down at the young man's mass. "This behaviour will only bring you a second enemy."


	5. Miracle of the Roses

Scout's toes grind into the sandy earth, and clouds of dust dirty the kneecaps of his dark grey pants in sporadic points of impact, as if slapped on by invisible hands. Falling to them, a hand clenched to his chest, his scream is halted violently in his throat, flooded with his own blood. Blinking back more of the liquid, clouding his eyes and oozing from his nose, dribbling overly slowly dying lips, he instantly falls over onto his side. Fountains of yet more blood trickle from his ears, each stream a sickening current, seeping into the ground, clogging his ears, only to leave him with the sounds of his own agony. And as his breath abandons him too, Scout could hear his own life begin to tear away from his flesh, a process he now knew all too well.

And when the howling roars of his own death cease to rob him of his senses, when the wind settles just shortly before leaving his lungs a final time, he knows his soul remains only to mock the lifeless body it leaves behind; Lawrence's blue eyes, lifeless and staring, glassy and heinously cold, do not shutter at the white sun that tops the apex of the sky, flooding everything else around him, blindingly so. His red mouth rests agape, blood mingling with soil, brushed across his burning mouth as a biological graze. Scout's tongue lulls in the back of his throat, dipping the pool of blood that stagnates and suffocates his esophagus. His hands claw into the ground, stiffened and disobedient to the remnants of his conscious that remain. Remain only to process the formless figure that towers above him, so massive and so seemingly grand that the shadow it casts against Lawrence's dying frame is welcoming, icy. The same white light detours around the black mass, sprawling from its sides like sunny scepters, extending in radiant rays that create an illusion of divinity in this moment. Scout knew better than to hold his death as such; he'd known the royalty of it all too well to be so easily fooled and awed by shallow tricks of light.

It kicks him, even though the figure has no foot to protrude forward and strike him outright, even though Scout can no longer sense his own skin. Still, his body rolls over onto its back, his blue shirt wet adhering to his skin as if drenched in the morbid glue of his own insides. His eyelids mustn't shut for black to shade them briefly; the figure still maintains its stance above him, and Scout breaks the dam of blood in his throat, screaming wildly, viciously, his unearthly shrieks matching the unearthly actions of the mass, who extends shapeless hands to stretch the Bostonian's jaw, tearing at his lips and cheeks, until his head rolls back as far as it can on his rigid neck.

Instantly the sensation of pain returns to him; every cell within his body ignited in inescapable suffering. He'd never known a death like this; surely, he muses, he was being taken to Hell. The figure had come to collect him. Control of his hands returns to him, and he swipes at the shadows, his wretched hands possessed with snarling ferocity, bony and gruesome, dead branches, dead weight. His legs kick and twitch as whatever his captor was seeps into his body, his jaw still wrenched back so far he fears he may never close his mouth again. The New Mexican plains are destitute still; nothing existed for miles, and the horizon flew upward in dark blue buttresses of sky.

"No…no!" Scout mumbles as he watches in horror as the shadow slides down his throat. "I don't want to go back!" he argues forcefully, somehow iknowing/i this creature meant for him to live onward. "JUST LET ME DIE!" he argues, angrily, and he chokes at the energy the figure releases into his stomach. "I'M SERIOUS! JUST LET ME GO!" he hears himself roar mentally, though whatever had taken over him answers in the croak of a sickening i"Nooo"/i. Life returns to him suddenly, washing over him in a powerful wave, more painful than any time respawn had awoken him before. The bullet hole in his skull slowly begins to close, and in a renewed sense of consciousness, Scout yells yet again. His throat drained, his hands cramping from their relentless clench on the ground. His windpipe gusts air to his expanding lungs, and dried blood cakes the inner and outer rims of his dirty ears. His shirt still cools as its bloody surface dries in the wind.

He coughs violently as the pain subsides, a dull soreness quick to replace it. He moans, his voice box drumming a hum in his chest, and, lastly, Scout finally opens his eyes. Where the formless entity had stood in death, the outline of a tall man replaces it amongst the living. Sounds of life burst in Scout's ears as if life itself resumed simultaneously once more. His narrowed eyes are not as unwavering against the harsh sunlight. In between the creases of his frantically closing lids, he catches sight of a hairy arm wrenching his head back and forth, before a hot breath mumbles a breezy "bloody hell…." across his face.

i'Heinrich's gonna get pissed…'/i is all Lawrence can muster himself to think as the hairy arm is met with its heavy twin, joined by more muffled, accented mumblings. i'I'm in some real shit this time'/i.


	6. Sainthood

"You smell ash, mate?"

The black hairs, less than an inch in length, finely curled atop each other in a delicate mass, tickle the shallower entrances of his nostrils. Jack sneezes once as he takes in a whiff of the chalky air he contemplates, head craned upward. The heat itself is stifling; igniting the dry air, the blue sky overhead clenches itself closed, locked behind a thicket of hazy air scorching the earth a white hot. Cupping all of the world's rain in an invisible basin far beyond atmospheric limits, stingy and ornery, the clustered cumulonimbus clouds stretch above the limitless ceiling, as bricks trudge through mud. The puffs of their bulging forms are grey on the tips and bottom of the formations, dangling relief above the open mouth of New Mexico.

The heat bakes the soil below his boot clad feet, and Sniper takes another glimpse of the brick building before him, too lightheaded to acknowledge a second sneeze in such quick succession. He closes his eyes as a slow gust of charred breeze attempts to rustle the hair on the back of his neck, held in place by the damp sweat that weighs it down.

"I kinda smell ash."

Armand raises his eyebrows slowly. His fair face, completely botched red in irregular irritation along his cheeks and forehead, would have peeled behind his usual balaclava, considering the skin would have chaffed against the fabric. Armand's nose houses dangling beads of sweat against its tip like a leaky faucet. Producing a silken handkerchief from the depths of his trouser pocket, the Frenchman wipes his face as he gives the collapsed building a concise look over before determining the act to require excess amounts of effort on his behalf.

"Yes, actually. I imagine ze forests are on fire. It would make sense, Teufort hasn't seen rain in weeks," he reasons, rolling his eyes quickly as his response does not stir the Australian, the man still studying the rubble of the collapsed building with interest. "Zhen again zhere is no smoke to show of it…"

"'Nd this is the buildin' everyone said your lot's Soldier managed t'hit, eh?" the man asks further, bringing his hand to shield his eyes which already rest protected behind his standard aviators. "You'd think he woulda been a bit more careful,"

"Who is ieveryone/i?" Armand spits, taking apparent offense to the man's comment as if he were pressing into the man's darkest secrets.

"'ll of us, really. Magda said she was dispatched by the Admint'TeufortCity in order t'assist the paramedics out here. She said somethin' about makin' sure there were no casualties 's a result of it. She wasn't happy about it, neither," Jack explains, nearing the wreckage indiscriminately. "Shouldn't come as a shock t'you that our missions leakin' into the city outright would be a talkin' point,"

"Well zhat doesn't excuse zhe fact zhat I find you igawking/i outside of it, even attempting to iscale/i it, apparently, to be unwise,"

"I'm not igawkin'/i, I'm jus' checkin' it out for m'self,"

"What for? Zhe incident was last week, anyzhing of interest would have occurred idays/i ago," Spy rolls his eyes again, folding his arms as Sniper's attempt to climb over the jagged brick wall kicks up rustic soot, which the Frenchman closes his eyes and darts his head to avoid. "You'll find nozhing zhere but concrete floor and maybe a few steel beams, if zhat,"

"'Lright, 'lright, I'm jus' takin' a little peek," Sniper snaps, letting go of his grip along the only intact remains of the once gigantic brick structure. "Nothin' wrong with seein' it with my own eyes,"

"And you i'ave/i, may we iplease/i keep moving?!" Spy snaps, gesturing an ungloved hand out of the alley and toward the main road of Teufort, leading to a small but relatively populated shopping district.

"Jesus, y're less of a Frenchman 'nd more of a iGerman/i th' way y'always got t'get somewhere…" Sniper swipes a hand through his hair, his feet landing against the cobblestone. Bringing his hands over his head, the tall man bends at his waist, grunting loudly as he stretches the entirety of his back.

"I just don't want to spend zhe only free afternoon I will 'ave for a while istaring/i at destroyed buildings; I 'ave no interest in it,"

"Y'know, sometimes the thing we find t'be the least interestin' 'nd conspicuous can turn out t'be the more peculiar things in life,"

"It is an iold, abandoned factory/i, Jack; it 'asn't been in use for twenty years, zhe site looks just zhe same as it would if it 'ad been demolished by a construction firm,"

"Well still, I'd like t'take a moment t'pay respect to the fact that I'm part of the ireason/i TeufortCity's gonna have t'budget remoddlin' the thing, eh? If you all weren't tryin' t'attack ius/i, his rocket never woulda been fired,"

"Well in case RED Team didn't get zhe memo amongst zhe rest of your igossip/i, Jane made a public appearance apologizing directly to zhe people of Teufort; yes, it was just as embarrassing and socially inept as you zhink it was," Spy adds in soft laughter, applying his own sunglasses once the two step onto the street, walking along the sidewalk. "I can only be zhankful I was not zhere for it in person,"

"Right, y'were too busy in bed with me, eh?" Jack chuckles, the Frenchman rolling his eyes, the gesture hidden behind his tinted black lenses, the silver frames glistening with a shimmer only designer sunglasses would.

"I see ya smilin'," Jack sneers, Spy unable to help himself as his thin lips stretch out and curl apostrophes of amusement into his dimpled cheeks.

"Zhe point is, what is done is done. Jane 'as apologized, BLU 'as apologized; even zhe Admin 'erself came to town to apologise. Zhe people of Teufort already don't take kindly to ieizher/i RED or BLU or TF Industries as it is. It would be'oove us not to draw attention Jane's destruction of zhat building, especially as employees ourselves; 'ad we been caught back zhere it would 'ave drawn up suspicion, like we mean to blow somezhing else up; zhe city is on 'igh alert regardless," Armand grimaces as Jack snatches the cigarette he prepares right from his bony fingertips, taking a generous drag, coughing as the smoke sears his already parched throat.

"Y'worry too much,"

"You don't worry nearly enough," Spy glares upward at Jack, beads of sweat seeping into the collar of his wife beater. "One day it will get you killed,"

"Get the stick out your arse 'nd jus' ilive/i, mate," he smiles kindly, bringing an arm to massage the Frenchman's shoulder before slinging it affectionately around him. "'Sides, th' city might not be here if things keep followin' the trend, we'll 've blown 'er down before we get another day to ourselves,"

"Don't even ijoke/i about it, zhe locals might hear you!"

"What ilocals/i, darlin', 's hardly a soul out here; prolly too scared t'leave their homes in case Jane finds his launcher again…" Jack mumbles, careless as always. "Look, 's a café; how 'bout we sit down 'nd get a bloody idrink/i before we rot away out here, eh?"

"Jack, you iknow/i I do not feel comfortable about taking too long in Teufort after last week, we just got zhrough discussing zhis! I just want to get to zhe suit shop and ileave-/i" but the Frenchman huffs impatiently as the Australian crosses the parched street faster than he can attempt to convince him otherwise. He beckons for Armand to join him cheerfully, waving an arm above his head and seating himself at a small circular table, whose entire surface resided under the mercy of a dark red sunbrella.

Spy obliges regardless, concluding indignantly that the cool, eggshell white iron of the European style chairs provided an ice cold comfort that almost sought to mock his better judgment. Simmering in shadow, Armand pulls the chair away from the table and seats himself, Sniper already having beaten the man by many seconds, his head thrown back, his hands fanning himself lethargically. His thin legs stretch outward, his chest and neck glistening with a heat induced sweat, accompanied by the scent of it to match, musty and heavy like perfume. Each subsequent wave of his hand causes Spy to shut his eyes, the pungent smell of bacteria festering in the tangled strands of armpit hair waging a piercing attack against his nostrils.

"Fine, but we are not going to linger 'ere; as soon as we tip zhe waitress it is straight to zhe suit shop and zhen back to 2Fort,"

Jack ignores him, fanning himself further, his flushed and overheated skin a grapefruit pink. He heaves as he breathes the relief of shade into his pores. Spy rolls his eyes, snatching up a thin, rectangular menu, whose sun bleached, cornflower blue paper renders it almost impossible to read. This certainly does nothing to curb his mood. He scoffs, drawing his fingers away from light brown splotches of dried espresso seeped, settling his thoughts on an iced chai with a glass of ice water.

"You could talk to me, while we are waiting," Spy snaps. Jack grunts, utilizing the menu in his hands as a more powerful air vacuum. "About your day, your mood, isomezhing/i!"

"What about imy day/i 're you just achin' t'know, Mr. Snappy?"

"Well, 'as it been a good one? I don't know, it is not as if you 'aven't socialized before! What is inew/i, what is interesting?" Armand asks with sudden briskness, the hiss in his voice implying his irritation had not subsided despite his want for small talk.

"Well, I dunno…" Sniper shrugs. "Woke up at 'round seven, was out there workin' on Mallory by about eight after breakfast. I was prunin' 'er 'nd stuff, still laughin' 'bout the whole thing with Jane -"

"Zhat we are not going to discuss outside of zhe base so as not to stir up some already estranged feelings between zhe people of Teufort and ourselves, or iat all/i, for zhat matter," Spy quickly interrupts.

"''Kay; anyway, I was prunin' 'er 'nd stuff, enjoyin' the mornin' b'fore the battle…"

"Riveting," Spy smirks, craning his neck past the Australian, peering into the darkened hole of the coffee shop, not a single person stirring within.

"I was lookin' over at some flat land over near the border t'your lot…I've been thinkin' 'bout plantin' some tomatoes all season, but I don't wanna at the same time; don't need contamination from all the warfare,"

"Zhey would get destroyed in an instant; it would be foolish of my comrades to let you extend into our territory, no matter 'ow 'armless your iintentions/i may be,"

"Well lemmie tell y'mate; we had the battle a few days ago, yeh? I'd found a nice spot, got situated. Doesn't take long for your Scout t'start dartin' 'around here 'nd there, doin' whatever the bloody Hell it is he does,"

"And?" Armand snaps.

"What d'ya mean iand/i?! I shot the little shit right in the head, like you'd expect any Sniper t'do!"

"Zhat cannot exactly ibe/i, considering 'e would be idead/i if zhat were zhe case; I saw 'im just zhis morning,"

"Yeh, well, here's where shit gets interestin', Armand. I shoot 'im. He's headin' right towards where I was hidin', 'nd by time he sees me peekin' at him, he gets these wide eyes knowin' a bullet's comin' right at 'im. He falls t'the ground, there's blood all around, brain matter not too far from 'im either,"

"Spare me, please," Spy rolls his eyes, raising a hand to silence him quickly as the waitress finally emerges from inside the coffee shop, sweat rolling down her neck and sizzling as it glides over her collar bone. "A chai tea, please - iced, of course. A side of ice water, and if you could possible sweeten zhe chai wizh almond milk - zhank you dear, you are a pleasure,"

"What've y'got for beer, dollface," Jack grunts the instant the waitress turns her attention onto him.

"If you order beer you will only de'ydrate yourself, Jack. 'Ell take a water as iwell/i, Miss,"

"'Lright iMum/i," Jack sneers, the waitress leaving the table wide eyed.

"'Onestly Jack, you should know better. On a day like zhis, wizh temperatures over one 'undred, zhe beer would 'ave you knocked out faster zhan a sleeping pill,"

"'Kay, well, let me tell y'more about your goddamn Scout - " Sniper is quick to continue, leaning forward aggressively out of enthusiasm for the subject. "'E was as good as bloody idead/i, mate. He iwas/i dead. Shot in the head. Boom. The end,"

"I will not tell you again zhat zhis is iimpossible/i, Jack!"

"Would y'please just hear me out?! Jus' for a second, Armand!" Sniper glares as Armand moodily adjusts his posture in the chair, giving the Australian a forceful but no less attentive look.

"I went t'go hide his body, in case one o'you found 'im and could gather I was nearby. 'Nd like I said, this was a clean job,"

Armand scoffs, but allows the man to continue.

"I was about to pick him up, when I'm watchin' the hole in the side of his head iclose up/i, 'nd iall/i the blood is starin' t'drain away 'cept for a little bit caked where the hole used t'be, 'nd I see his eyes rollin' behind his lids, 'nd - 'nd," Sniper is rendered speechless for a few moments as he recounts his memory, shaking his head as if rattling it would rearrange the chronology of events in a more sensical pattern. "Outta nowhere he just started stugglin', darlin'. He's shakin', twitchin', starts thrashin' so violently he's slammin' his head into the ground, 'nd keep in mind he went from ivery dead/i t'unconscious but movin'," he breathes heavily, quickly continuing.

"So I hold him down, he's bangin' his head so wild he's drawin' blood again. 'Nd finally after two minutes, the kid's eyes shoot wide open, and he's screamin' bloody murder. Dunno why, dunno how. Bugger me if I'll iever/i know ihow/i. But he'd been resurrected before my own eyes, mate. Kid gripped onto me for dear life, beggin' me t'kill him. I was frozen. Didn't know what t'do, I'd left my knife where I was hidin' 'nd when y'see somethin' like that all you can really do is istare/i. 'Nd let me tell yout, Armand, it was clear he meant it; the way he held me, those screams…I've been on that base for ten years 'nd I'd never seen agony like that,"

The waitress, unaware of Sniper's tale, places their drinks calmly on the table before slipping away once more. Gulping down the entirety of his glass's contents, Sniper brushes his mouth forcefully with the back of his hand, rattling the ice cubes against the glass as he shakes it. "I'd never seen ianythin'/i like that,"

"So…" Armand pipes up after a minute of silence, the Australian's focus concentrated onto the lifeless street of the shopping district. His narrowed grey eyes waver, though fixed pointedly in the direction they stare. "You mean to tell me zhat you shot and ikilled/i our Scout, and watched 'im come back to life?"

Armand allows Jack a few moments to respond, but the silence his lover keeps leaves him without explanation. "You mean zhat zhere is some sort of isupernatural/i mystery surrounding zhe BLU Scout zhat just irevives/i 'im!"

"Oi, 's no need t'make me out as a inutjob/i, mate," Jack starts defensively, wrinkling his brow. "'Nd I iknow/i what I saw -"

"Fine. If zhis really idid/i all 'appen like you say, if my comrade really iwas/i shot and killed by you, and mysteriously brought back to life, what 'appened afterward? I know for a fact zhat zhe story does not stop wizh 'im holding onto you for dear ilife/i!" Spy argues, his features darkening with argumentative aggression, sarcastic emphasis surrounding the last word of his accusation.

"I'm jus' starin' down at him. I've got him with his hands grippin' me so hard I can't even feel my iarms/i. I can't talk, I'm in bloody ishock/i. He's sobbin' 'nd iclearly/i not at all bothered that he'd jus' taken me for a mental fuckin', when outta nowhere he's stopped 'nd he's mumblin' irun/i. I knew this kid wasn't lyin' t'me, or tryin' anythin'. He meant it. His eyes were glassy, 'nd after everythin' I'd witnessed I didn't need tellin' twice. He was shakin' again, Armand, terrified. He told me t'run, 'nd so I did. He let me go, 'nd I tore off for the nest. I don't even remember bein' back in it, to be honest. But I was soakin' in me own sweat 'nd all of me felt so ialive/i, darlin'. I put my scope to my eye, 'nd I watched him. I watched him sit there 'nd shake. No longer than three minutes passed before he was taken away by some group o'men I'd never seen in my life, from either your lot or TF Industries. Not shortly after that, we won the battle,"

"Well it is itrue/i zhat our Scout was taken into zhe infirmary for injuries and was zhus zhe nail in our victory's coffin, but for nozhing more zhan a broken leg. Zhe rest of zhis story makes no sense,"

"Y'serious mate? iAnytime/i I've seen him durin' battle he's always struck me as bein' idifferent/i! It caught my attention 'lright. Y'mean you're his comrade 'nd y've never noticed anythin'? 'S never struck you as iweird/i that he'll sit outta two or three battles at a time? Your ionly/i Scout BLU has for hundreds o'miles?"

but yeah,

"I'm not going to openly discuss my comrade wizh you if it involves zhis insanity, Jack,"

"Any other time I've caught 'im about, he was kinda runty, like he hadn't been eatin', 'nd runnin' for his ilife/i, how've you noticed nothin'?!"

"Why are you just iwatching/i 'im, Jack?"

"'S ithat/i supposed t'mean?!"

"It means maybe you are watching 'im a little too closely if are sensing inconsistencies in 'is running patterns," Spy spits so venomously that the hazel eyes that bore into his flesh hit straight to the bone, his words are so corrosively uttered.

"Right, 'nd what the Hell else am I supposed t'be iwatchin'/i as a Sniper, Armand, definitely not my ienemy/i, eh?!"

"Your iScout/i is zhe one zhat should be actively in charge of keeping watch of zhe enemy, non? And if I recall correctly, zhe position of iSniper/i also requires somezhing along zhe lines of iprecision elimination/i in addition to your 'ours of borderline iperverse/i voyeurism in zhat nest of yours,"

"Right, didn't know y'were so eager t'see your own mate dead,"

"You misunderstand me; what I want to know is why zhe BLU Scout is worzh zhe attention, but not the ibullet/i,"

"Were you not jus' listenin'?! Apparently 'is body takes bullets 'nd gives 'em the damn ifinger/i, 'cause one t'the head wasn't enough t'keep ihim/i down!"

"Zhis is nonsense, Jack Mundy," Spy shakes his head once more. "Absolute nonsense. Zhe child is ifine/i. 'E 'as performed in every mission zhe last four monzhs, and 'as suffered minor wounds and nozhing else since zhen. What you are saying does not add up to zhe ireality/i of zhings, zhe reality zhat iI, as 'is comrade and friend/i, 'ave a certain awareness of,"

"Then there's somethin' y'must not be iaware/i of zhen -"

"And what is izhat/i, Jack Mundy?! You mean to tell me zhat after centuries of mankind istruggling/i to fight mortality, a twenty zhree year old runt from Boston 'as got it all figured out?! Zhere is no such zhing as resurrection, Jack. People cannot just simply ireawake/i from zhe dead! If anyone on eizher your or my own team is killed, zhen zhat is it! A deazh notice is sent to the family and zhe case is closed,"

"I got the feelin' that Scout o'yours is up t'somethin' pretty damn serious, mate,"

"It seems to me zhat you 'ave been taking 'allucinogens again, Jack. I would not be surprised in zhe slightest if you started back up again wizh your drug addiction," Armand sneers from utter disgust. "You probably went to zhe battle on LSD again. iZhat/i would be much more akin to zhe truzh,"

"I wasn't! I wasn't on anythin', Armand! I know what I saw!"

"I needn't know anything else to know what you isaw/i was nozhing short of a drug induced i'allucination/i!"

"Then y'know what mate?! Fine. I'm gonna figure all this out for myself. Y'don't wanna believe me, I'm takin' this into my own hands,"

"Jack Mundy if you go anywhere inear/i our Scout, I will be forced to overlook our relationship to protect my comrade and my allegiance to BLU!"

"Stop me all y'want, doesn't mean I won't get my answers," Sniper whispers darkly, slamming his chair against the table, rising violently as he produces a set of car keys from his pocket.

"You best 'ope zhat you realize zhere is no answer to your damn idelusions/i, Jack," Spy swears in finality, and Sniper stalks away from the man without another look back.


	7. Silence and Motion

Metal plunges into his veins, and Scout watches with heavily lidded eyes as red sludge fills the medical instrument. He wears bags on his eyes, dark purple pouches of pulpy, droopy sores, greens and reds exploding on his inflamed upper eyelids like a sickly gradient. Paper trials scatter and litter the medical bay, barely dried ink smearing their surfaces like formal finger paintings. The center most of the three officially clad men observes Lawrence in his restraint against the gourney, the other two splintering from his side to finish menial laboratory tasks not yet started. The very same man, the fattest, the baldest, with thick creases folding into his shiny, hairless brow, holds the syringe to the light, the spandex of his medical gloves shining in an array of sinister beaconry.

"Test it," Wallace snaps, and the Medic whom he addresses barely has time to situate his wiry, circular glasses before plucking the needle and rushing it to the haven of dozens of microscopes. "Time of death…" Wallace's squeak of a voice whispers wearily, his beady blue eyes rolling and whirling in their sockets. "At approximately 3:13pm on Saturday, June 17h, 1967. Time of revival, approximately 3:15pm on Saturday, June 17th, 1967. It still seems we have not been able to work out this particular kink - this whole issue with respawn times jumping so drastically. With the Scout respawning two minutes later, a minute and forty five seconds longer than our goal of a consistent fifteen seconds, we can at least say that recent changes made to the chip since earlier this week are moving us along in the right direction! The cause of death this time around appears to be a single gunshot wound to the head - particularly the work of a Sniper, judging by the bullet," Wallace grunts, his eyes swiveling to a fat and long, brass coloured bullet that rattles in a container on the cart next to him. "Heinrich, would you hurry up with that blood work!"

His hiss does nothing to speed up time, although no time had passed at all. His eyes are thrown nervously over his shoulder, fixed at Dmitri, whose posture, slumped from impatience, pays no heed to beakers or dishes. The Medibay had instantly transformed into a factory line of scientific efficiency, the official letter from Helen Ingram noting Dmitri's observance for the week having jumpstarted the man and the rest of his research crew. Scout moans again, his mouth and teeth dyed a bright red, still filled with blood.

"Oh no, please take your time, Mr. Shelley, we still have much to discuss, and I would hate for my colleague to simply stand there with nothing to do while we talk; carry on, Schmelzer! And do take your time with the blood work!" Dmitri calls kindly to the German, who hunches further over his microscope on the other side of the lab. "I should not have to gesture you to take a seat in your own domain of authority, Mr. Shelley - sit," though anyone who saw the glint of mirth in his eyes would know the Italian derived nothing but an utmost sense of pleasure that came with undermining the professor in his own area of research. The file folder in the Spy's arms, stamped with the shimmering embossment of the Administrator's purple emblem only aided in liquidation of his power. The script of the "H" trailing in graceful cursive into a carefully crafted "e" caught the small blue eye of the round man, the looped "I" for "Ingram" rushing a sommersault of adrenaline to the sweat glands of his pudgy palms.

"First and foremost, I think we should take a nice look at the proposal you sent to TF Industries when this project began - ahah - according to this paper, nine months ago,"

"What of it, Dmitri! Helen Ingram knows not to expect results overnight from me, much less with this project! She knows that an investment of her time in me is only an investment, both figurative as well as financially, well within her realm of personal interest! I have not let her down thus far, Marino! Do not forget the Respawn project is without a doubt the most strenuous and time consuming of my scientific career!"

"Helen Ingram would not have sent me to keep a week's worth of watch on you and your men in your very own laboratory had she any true faith in you or this project, Wallace Shelley! And don't you forget it! Not even for my own sake, it doesn't matter to me! It would be your employment and scientific credibility on the cutting board! All of this, should I return a less than satisfactory write up for Pauling to read and Ingram to approve! Not that she wouldn't, that sweetheart! Should I also remind you, you are due to present a lecture of your project in three months' time?"

"You needn't; what you should remind yourself is that you are asking me to circumvent death itself, Dmitri Marino. Not fake it, like the Dead Ringer. Not transport the living, like the teleporter; you are asking me to manufacture immortality, and as you can see here, with the boy, I am weeks within its conception!"

"Hey now, I did not ask you to circumvent anything, and neither did Helen. What you did, was come to her saying that if BLU were to contract you with fifty researchers, a facility, beta testers, and hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of grants, you would have a piece of technology so revolutionary that the six month wait to develop it would be nothing but a blink of an eye in retrospect! A pretty crazy claim, Shelley! But it's not like the Administrator isn't any crazier! And here we are, nine months later, and I am here on account of your words," Dmitri slams the folder onto the gurney, a yellowed grant proposal exposed at the professor's eye level. The faded words, typed at a time so seemingly endless and far away now he stood under the eye of scrutiny, back up Dmitri's accusation in print; these really had been his claims. "As for Scout, I see nothing but a moaning trainwreck, whose whole being has been butchered as a result of your endless slew of failed experiments! Respawn, according to your proposal, was supposed to take approximately fifteen seconds to revive the victim within a designated place in BLU base with no psychological or physical after effects. As it stands, it takes three minutes, the teleportation aspect of it hasn't even worked thus far, and the Scout is fucked beyond belief!" the man shouts towards the end of his sentence, gesturing to the bloodied Lawrence, whose eyes stare unblinking at the white ceiling over head.

"You were all foolish to think such a project would not have its snags!" Wallace shouts, slamming his fist on the bed too, his face reddening quickly.

"You were a fool to claim such a project could be done! And now you have invested us all in your scientific follies, you have to pay the consequences! Which is me being here, and essentially baby sitting you! TF Industries does not respond well to wild goose chases," Marino snatches the folder into his arms. "As you are now figuring out,"

"Professor? Professor," both men's heads turn to the voice of Medic, who surfaces from the microscope. Dmitri's haughty smile grows larger as he catches the professor's narrow eyed stare at him from the corner of his own. "Zhe bloodvork is finished,"

"Timely results! Nice job, Heinrich," Dmitri sneers, gesturing for the professor to meet his colleague in the middle of the room. "His vitals have once again regulated zhemselves, as zhey had upon his initial revival zhree minutes after getting shot in zhe head. Once again, it vould appear he has no physical marks of zhe gunshot vound. As ve had predicted, zhe teleportation chip is malfunctioning altogezher,"

"Then I will have to prepare the Scout for surgery in order to operate on it! While we are at it, I will probably take a look at his Respawn chip as well; perhaps the issue of his delayed revival lies on the technology, too; I have ruled out all other potential external factors," Wallace contemplates, Heinrich holding a bucket under Lawrence, the young man spitting his mouth full of blood into it before falling against the gurney again.

"So it's settled," the professor pipes firmly, intent on ignoring Dmitri behind him, who scribbles on a clipboard as soon as he speaks. "Be prepared to work on the boy this Saturday morning, and only on the revival and teleportation chips. I have no doubt the procedure would take all morning, and as a result I want the Scout kept in the lab for the remainder of the week. I do not want any other outside outliers affecting him; I want to test the issue with the technology under these given conditions, Schmelzer, do you understand me?"

Heinrich nods, the German attempting to ignore his subordinate as well. "I mean it, too. Should I see the Scout roaming outside of the wing I will have you held responsible, Schmelzer. He isn't to even leave the laboratory,"

"Ach, I am a doctor, not a prison guard. And you certainly vill not be holding me captive as a result of keeping an eye on him, Herr Professor. It is asking too much of me, especially because I have a battalion to keep to. Zhey have zheir maladies and injuries as vell,"

"I have a feeling, Schmelzer, that if these are the orders given to you, you oughta listen! Especially if it speeds things along," Dmitri cuts in unwarranted, Heinrich holding his tongue, though reflecting his disdain in the darkening of his features.

"Take hourly measurements of his condition, Schmelzer. I want every single detail on his state, and I want this to be the last major surgery the boy has to undergo, so we must make this count,"

"If I could speak to you in the hall, Professor," Dmitri sneers, content with the posing of his question, striding his way over toward the heavy door leading to the corridor. "Schmelzer this won't take but a good ten minutes or so. Question the Scout on his condition and do whatever researchy shit that is expected of you. Just because I have nothing to say about you that doesn't mean your own performance isn't being judged by my sit in," the heavy door slams behind the two mens' voices, the weight of their instantly continued bickering muffled behind its metal. Scout is quick to sit up, placing a hand on his forehead before shaking his head disbelievingly.

"Fuck all of you if you think you're lockin' me up in here," he snaps. He slips his hands in his pockets, and his legs kick weakly to and fro.

"Lawrence, zhings are already getting too complicated for you to begin misbehaving again -"

"Misbehavin'?! They're tryin' to keep me locked in here, doc!"

"Shhhh," Heinrich hisses nervously, attempting to quiet the young man's rising temper before it even begins to truly flare. "I know. I know it. If zhere vas anyzhing I could do to rule against zhe order, you know I vould do it. But at zhe very least vizh Marino vatching, Shelley is going to vant to speed up zhe process, vhich vill only get you released sooner from all zhis,"

"Yeah right, that nutjob's like a fuckin' fat bitch slidin' on ice. You light a fire under his ass, it ain't gonna actually do shit to get things done, it's just gonna make bigger messes at a faster pace," Scout grimaces as the German thwacks metal tools against his teeth, clearly content with his ability to speak. Fingers twists in the Bostonian's mouth, gushing warm saliva from the back of his throat. Swishing at the German's fingers, Lawrence's lips and tongue maneuver around the intrusive hand.  
"Marino's just tired of workin' with the dude, and he's just tired of hearin' the Administrator complain about it. At the end of the day the dickhead still gets his paycheck,"

"Vell just please keep cooperating, Scout," Medic sighs, and his wrinkled face is grey with sudden, weary gloom. His motions slow, and become deliberate; intent on grabbing a fresh pair of gloves, he limps past him, the decrepit dog unable to pull its weight to its own bowl.

"I'm just a fuckin' butt monkey for you guys, huh? You should take out the chips durin' the surgery without him knowin', let me die, and let the whole fuckin' project die too. Seriously, fuck this, fuck everyone's paycheck, fuck your rewards, fuck BLU, all of this,"

"Lawrence, stop it, you are in no condition to get vorked up!"

"Yeah, what condition am I in, doc. Seriously, I can't even go out into the fuckin' hallway no more, apparently," Scout mumbles darkly. "I haven't even had a bed as nice as the fuckin' cot in the barracks in weeks. I haven't talked to Ma or my brothers since the whole project started!" he resigns, his voice shaking. "They prolly don't know where I am, or that I'm okay! They honestly have not spoken to me in six months, man! And Ma ain't gonna take a letter every three much longer,"

"Scout, zhey are ok, and zhey must know you are ok!

"Ok?! This ain't ok to me, Doc. The shit you're pullin' on me hurts! And then you guys keep me in here, in the lab, away from everybody else -"

"For your safety! If anyone from ze outside vorld ever got vord of vhat vas being developed, of vat ze chips inside of you did, Lawrence…"

"Yeah, well you've got me locked up, kept away from everybody, and everything, and how much longer then, until the rest of the team figures out this shit is goin' on?! Until they go lookin' for me?! How much longer are they gonna buy the 'alternate trainin' camp' horse shit?!"

"Scout, if I can get Dmitri to allow you to spend a veek in zhe barrack after your surgery, I vill do so,"

"Pff - and be sedated out of my mind with all his drugs and surveillance shit so that he can watch to make sure I ain't talkin' about confidential shit? It ain't even worth it. I need way more than a comfy bed to deal with this shit,"

"Scout, I am trying my best, everyzhing vizhin my power to make zhis ordeal somevhat bearable for you," the German growls, the Scout scowling.  
"You know zis,"

"Yeah - I know it, but listen, doc…"

"Vhat, junge…"

"I - I have a feelin' this project ain't gonna be goin' on much longer,"

"Yes, you know - I have a feeling Shelley fears Marino vay too much to allow it to linger on -"

"Nah, like…" Scout's adam's apple bobs as he swallows harshly, leaning closer to the older German and dropping his voice to a hollow whisper. "The dude who killed me out there…" Scout's jaw clenches, and his throat tightens; how easy it was to recall the whistling bullet and his shattered skull, his body flooding under a blood river, the heavy accent of Australian grunts and curses, hands surveying his body, and the grey eyes sharing his confusion and mortified realization that he was still alive, the abandoned sense of war. He'd known the man in passing, as his enemy, his potential killer. The RED Sniper, a man who never missed and was even rarely seen by any of his team mates, the man usually so well hidden that his assassinations went uninterrupted. Lured out of the nest and into broad daylight, not a dot on the wall, but a tangible entity of feeling and expression, proof of existing humanity bound to the identity of the unwaivering scope and the deadly shot. Scout had not forgotten the feel of the man who held him, of the first man he'd ever confided the true extent of his suffering since the project began.

"He vat, Lawrence?"

But Scout is quick to cut off the rest of his words as the door opens again, and a livid Professor bumbles through it, clearly enraged to the point of blank expression, his lips a thin line, his eyes widened as small as their fattened lids will allow. Marino trails in shortly afterward, brushing off his suit.

"Well gentlemen, I think it is safe to say that I have rooted the severity of Shelley's status into his thick head, at least for the day! It only took the whole afternoon! Still, I'd like to call it a done deal, personally. Why don't we just say that it has been a rather decent evening, and a hopeful end of a first day that will lead to a productive and positive week of my observation, no doubt!"

No one returns the man's comment with dialogue of their own. Medic simply continues to dress the Scout, mumbling to him quietly. The Professors stands in silence with his hands clasped primly behind his back. "Glad to see you've been on your better behaviour since my last visit, Lawrence," Dmitri adds, and as the door closes behind him, he would have assuredly taken his statement back had he seen the middle finger the young man had raised in his wake. "Sometimes a tad of outside encouragement is all it takes to get the ball going! I'll return tomorrow morning, and I expect updates! Prepare Lawrence for surgery and get things moving already!"

"Let him think I'm crazy. I'll find 'nd figure out 's wrong with the damn Scout myself".

Pointed boots thread their way through the quiet halls of BLU's basement, the shadowed corridors quiet and ominous within unmoving shadow. The invisiwatch around Sniper's wrist suckles his flesh like a metal leech, preening ridged grooves into his skin. Grey and eggshell white pipes exhale smooth, constant breaths of industrial steam, their sizzling hisses misleading; the cool vapour does not burn his concealed frame.

Jack continues his secluded walk, hushing away his secrets in careful, planned out movements. The darkness of the hall swallows shadow and matter alike, unlit save for the small warm jewels of light that blink upon the machinery. The memories of Scout's screams come to him, more imperative than before. As if sentenced to their eternal torture for not heeding the young man's plea to kill him while Sniper had him under his mercy…

He had not snuck into the BLU base with the plan of ridding himself of this auditory curse; the stolen invisiwatch around his hand flickers, its juice waning as Jack realizes he hadn't much longer. Armand had not charged it for some time, he mentally rationalizes, and was thus unworried about leaving it upon Sniper's beside table back in the van before settling to sleep in the man's bed. In this Jack only saw opportunity; where his sleep had been so cruelly stolen from him on behalf of the mystery surrounding BLU Scout, the unattended watch and hour of night only egged him on in the direction of espionage and intrigue.

Machines wail, ruining Sniper's careful step. The memories of the white faced Scout screaming in his arms, lurching blood, shout louder. He called it a haunting, a curse; the repetitive shrill of dying throes snatch the Australian of his focus. Was it the curiosity of memory that led him here, a ghost, or phantom of fear? Into the straightforward hall into the enemy, and was this, Sniper asks himself, the path that too meant to lead him to experience the excruciation of death? The floor, perfectly smooth and a dark blue, too, living up to the legacy of the company's namesake, invites Jack's slick, invisible boots into a trotting dance; losing his balance, the man catches sight of his own forearm as the trip flickers with the effects of the invisiwatch. Careful to remain steady and transparent, his breath answering his body's pleads to remain calm; no one had seen him. The hall was still empty. His clumsiness sounded no bells.

The excuse of having shit to do seemed so self evident, the credibility of the grunted words dependent on half woken consciousness, embedded still in wilder dreams. Midnight, according to the invisiwatch. A perfect hour for conducting confidential business. Perhaps the Australian would see Armand about too, after all. As Sniper watches himself approach the only door at the end of the hallway, his own consciousness wakes, and his stomach leaps into his throat. Where rationality had left, and in its absence led him here by hand, it had now returned, ever so timely, to chastise him for merely following its lead. At the end, a wall and a door was all that stood.

A rush of adrenaline swoops forth to scolds Sniper too, and as if a switch had powered on every strainable inch of his still invisible body, the man jumps away from the handle, cursing as he draws back into a shadowed alcove. The better half of an hour spent sneaking into the base, and wandering downward, into an unexplored basement, wasted away in the wake of instinctual fear. Even better, Sniper breathes quietly; the invisiwatch needed its chance to sit idle and fuel up for the sneak back out. Armand was bound to wake at some point during the night, noticing the Australian is absent from the bed, his watch even more so unaccounted for. Naturally the helpless intruder can only sit in shock as sounds and motion explodes on the other side of the door, like joyous brass fanfare. They would assuredly find him - a RED man, in what seemed to be one of the most highly restricted areas of BLU space - secretive, lost in late night noseying. And with it, too, there was no doubt he would return the Scout's favour, plaguing the Bostonian with screams of his own once subjected to his own inevitable torture once taken prisoner. Perhaps - and with this musing Sniper swallows his saliva slathered and heavy tongue against the back of his throat - some mysteries were best left unprowled, undiscovered, overgrown and untamed, and, above all else, left alone.


	8. Hapsburg Jaw

The flattened mattress, nestled in the late night dark of the camper van bedroom, invites Sniper to fall against its cushioned hug; an invitation they graciously accept. Careful not to let the sleeping Armand know he has returned, he undresses quietly, quickly, in the darker corner of the room, less cluttered by things easy to bump and disturb. He slings the invisiwatch from around his wrist, glaring at its complex and cumbersome, digital face; how funny he finds the fluorescent blue _4:19 am_ is easier to read when his eyes aren't blinded with the flashes of life before them. That shackled weight, that _watch_, the ominously dark, unlit, and unfamiliar halls of BLU, the added dimension of sneaking after midnight, the Scout and the necessity behind the solving of his personal anomalies and mysteries. Sniper damns it all.

Salty residue cakes his wrist in a shape that mimics the band of the watch he'd nearly slammed against his bedside table. Scratching at the dried flakes of clay like dirt that ride the tails of his arm hair, his eyes shoot up again to observe Armand's frame sink low into the mattress, the drowsy exhale whistling through his incredibly hairy nostrils deeper than the gesture itself. Jack crashes into the mattress, eyes muddling through the small grains of the dark in an attempt to make out the texture of the camper ceiling. The man next to him had called him delusional only two days prior; delusional with warnings against letting his curiosity run too far ahead of him, of letting his curiosity gallop into a tempting prance, beating its iron hooves until the pulp of his resolve caked their bottoms like a juicy shoe.

Though why cling feverishly to the adrenaline the admittedly half-thought out attempt at divulging the Bostonian's secrets, that still lingers within him, dark brown and sluggishly elating like a richly hopped draught? It wasn't as if he'd come any closer to bringing Armand proof of the Scout's intrigue, the picked and horned head of his personal mysticism on an irrefutably splendid platter. Jack, spiraling the tip of his index finger deeper into his hairy navel, grimaces. His narrowed eyes fix absentmindedly on the carnation pink curtain that sheers the moonlight coming in from the small window. Beer cans and crushed cigarette cartons pile the bedside table like a toxic mountain. Even specks of dust flutter about, Jack surprised to see them so active this late at night. And yet, he contemplates with a heavy sigh that puffs his lungs against his ribs, he'd been lucky he'd made it out of the base undetected and unscathed. As much as he wishes he could attribute it to his own sneaking prowess and intellect, his conscious refuses to delude him, even when only half functional, and not even half awake.

"Let me guess, Jack…" Armand's groggy voice begins forcefully, seemingly out of nowhere. His mouth garbles the covers draped across his mouth and nose, muffling his voice. "You didn't find anyzhing,"

"Oi, what d'you mean…" Sniper starts, sitting up slowly, and his heavy brow collapses into itself as his thick eyebrows point downward in quick-to-rise indifference.

"I am not stupid," Armand replies tersely.

_'Bloke mus' be out o'his right mind with sleep…'_ Jack rationalizes internally, quickly too, even nodding his head to further confirm his seemingly fool proof assessment. _'Still 'sleep, 'nd scoldin' me in his dreams,'_. Determining this excuse good enough, Sniper rolls his eyes, his head valleyed in feathered rifts so eager to confirm his argument.

"Zhe watch can be tracked, Jack," so it could.

"Isn't that somethin'," it wasn't.

"Even in zhe BLU Base," the Frenchman is quick to reply.

"'Lright," the Australian quicker.

"_Especially_ in zhe BLU Base," especially indeed.

"_Gaaaah_, would you jus' go ahead 'nd _say_ it, mate?! Alright! I took your bloody watch 'nd was snoopin' around your bloody base!"

"Hmph - _I_ no longer 'ave to say it, seeing as you did for me,"  
"So what! 'S my early mornin' 'nd I can do what I want with it,"

"Zhat may be so, but I'm missing zhe part of zhe equation zhat granted you access to stealing my watch in an attempt to spy on my comrade!"

"Right, 'nd how'd you even know I was even goin' into your bloody base t'do anythin' with the Scout?!"  
Perhaps the Frenchman wasn't so far gone in his dreams as the Australian had initially presumed.

"I didn't say anyzhing _about_ Scout, and you 'ave only proved my point for me. Wonderful job, Jack. You leave a paper trail a mile be'indyou when attempting to sneak about, and leave one twice as big leading back 'ere for the return trip. Zhe watch notwithstanding, you couldn't last a _day_ in my shoes, it seems,"

"'K mate, 'nd I'm not tryin' to," Jack sneers, lighting a cigarette, the end a small amber pock of light, obstructed by strings of spicy smoke. "Why're you badgerin' about my own private, personal outtin's anyway. Y'should be sleepin',"

"You woke me up when you blundered zhrough zhe camper door,"

"If I blunder so much, why didn't y'bitch 'nd complain when I _left_ the first time, eh?"

"You _did_ blunder on zhe way out. You woke me up when you left, which was at midnight,"

"I was only gone an hour,"

"You just climbed in bed at four fifteen,"

"Right, y'jus' stayed up so you'd have somethin' t'bitch about I reckon,"

"You left in zhe middle of zhe night wizhout explanation and wizh my invisiwatch. You give me reason enough to stay up and bitch,"

"'Lright, so leave my bed. Leave my van," Jack grunts, scoffing twenty seconds later as Spy, who sits up next to him too, shirtless, eyes narrowed with impending slumber, steals a drag off the Australian's cigarette before handing it back to him moodily. "Go find somewhere better t'sleep' I guarantee y'whoever's bed it is'll only gonna be half as good a root,"

"You know, you don't even seem zhe least bit bozhered zhat I am actually quite upset wizh you right now,"

"Prolly because that's normal?! When're you ever not mad at me for somethin', Armand," Sniper retorts dully, Armand rolling his eyes before flicking the edge of the cigarette under the bed,

"Was what you saw even worzh zhe danger you put your life in?! What did you see, when you broke into zhe boy's room - a sleeping, normal, perfectly 'ealzhy young adult? Or was 'e magically dying and _resurrecting_ again, over and over?"

"He wasn't anywhere near his barracks, mate, somethin' you'd know 'bout your own team mate if you didn't spend so much time face down in the RED Sniper's bed,"

"Nonsense, where else would 'e be?!" Armand snaps, visibly choosing to ignore the man's comment.

"Try a dodgy arse basement surrounded by _doctors_?! I dunno, beats me too!"

"Even _children_ stop fearing basements by zheir ninzh birzhdays, Jack. What would he want in our _basement_ at zhis 'our?!"

"Welp! I'd like t'tell you, actually; 's why I keep tryin' t'get down to the bottom o'this bloody business, even if you think I'm a whackjob!"

"Well, 'onestly," Armand snaps shortly, craning his handsome head upon his long neck to capture Sniper's grey eyes in a humourless gaze. "Zhe Scout is 'ardly zhat complicated. Zhe boy 'as a love for 'is 'ome, Boston, 'is family, 'is baseball cards, fast cars, and ducks are far and away 'is favourite animal. E is not zhis, zhis - conspiring _zhing_ like you seem to believe, Jack! 'E would read 'is comic books in 'is barrack before bed, walk around in 'is pajamas despite zhe fact zhat it went against Jane's dress code, talk to everyone, laugh, joke, point out zhe prettiest models in zhe fashion magazines, and be asleep by 11:00 pm. 'E would be up by six zhirty zhe next morning, first in line for breakfast. 'E does not get much more complex zhan zhat, Jack. So zhere you 'ave it. You now know more about 'im zhan years of what I guess you zhink to be _espionage_ would ever grant you ozherwise,"

"Heh heh - _soooooorrrryyyyyy_, eh?" Jack chuckles. "Guess I'm a disgrace t'the occupation or somethin',"

"You 'ave no idea," Spy sneers indignantly, though not objecting to Sniper's mouth closing in on his own.

"Honestly, though, for an amateur I'm actually not quite bad; 're a few details about the kid you're missin'," Jack grunts, straddling the waist of the Frenchman below him.

"Really now,"

"Well, for starters - kid didn't look like a baseball duck jammie wearin' chatterbox t'me. Looked like he hadn't had breakfast in weeks either, he was kind o'runty,"

"Please, spare me,"

"What, my junk or my evidence that I _might_ actually be a better Spy than you?"

"Eizher," Armand glares, Jack's hands rooting around below the waist of his boxers. "He was in some basement, surrounded by doctors, wearin' the same bloody shit he was wearin' when I shot 'im earlier - lit'rally, actually - ;bout the blood, anyway - not the shit - 'nd all I heard was somethin' about surgery 'nd not lettin' him leave the basement,"  
Spy huffs a "You know, Jack, it's - it is possible zhat you were merely _sleeping_ and imagining all zhis!", exasperated even as the addressed kisses him along his neck, draping his body atop his own.

"I'm finding it difficult to be turned on by any of zhis while you continue on about zhis whole zhing,"

"Well, here comes the real int'restin' part, k? Maybe it'll get y'all heated up; Kid escaped,"

"What?! Jack, what?!"

Kisses along his chest lessen the need for an immediate answer. "Whoever was watchin' or guardin' him or whatever must o'let their care on 'im down for a split second, 'nd the kid tore off. Out the basement, 'nd I even followed him outta the base, 'nd watched him as he actually ran away, towards the city. Honest t'God,"

"Jack," the man sighs, half from the Australian's pleasurable actions, half his long established irritation. "Zhere are wild animals out zhere, coyotes, and - and scorpions! Zhings no one who valued _living_ would ever want to deal wizh!"  
"Right, nothin' out there that could get 'im that my bullet t'the head couln't! 'Nd what's it matter when the kid's immune t'death, huh? Why's he got a reason t'care 'bout what's crawlin' around out there?! 'Nd obviously whatever he was dealin' with down there was more than enough t'set him runnin'!"

"Jack, 'onestly -" Spy holds up a hand in exasperated disgust, shifting in the blankets, and sliding his body away from Sniper's warm one, that continues with its sexual advances. "I wish more zhan anyzhing zhat you would just drop zhis. Drop zhe discussions wizh myself, drop zhe stalking 'im - _if_ zhe boy can die and come back from the dead - _if_ - zhat does not change zhat 'e is your enemy and zhat prying any furzher into zhe situation could lead you to your deazh,"

"So then what, y'really havin' a hard time figurin' out why I'm takin' interest in the fact that my potential killer _can't_ be killed himself?!"

"It certainly doesn't make any of zhis your _business_, I zhink you are only getting yourself into to trouble Jack - by time you realize zhere _is_ no conspiracy, and zhat zhe Scout is just a normal Scout, you will 'ave already been captured by my comrades, and not released alive so willingly,"

"You've jus' got no bloody clue, mate," Sniper shakes his head flatly. "I followed him out, invisible with _your_ watch thing - 'nd I saw him run far the Hell away from that base, Armand. Whatever's in there that's makin' him flee _has_ t'be linked with his invincibility. 'S all tied t'gether, Armand, 'nd there's no way it'll all stay hushed away for long,"

"Only because you would be luring whatever zhis is out into zhe open where it _can't_ stay 'ushed up any longer!"

"So then - hypothetically speakin' - say there _was_ somethin' goin' on -"

"Which zhere _isn't_ -"

"But say there _was_, mate. Say I'm right 'nd there's somethin' goin' on - Y'wouldn't want t'know what was behind it?"

"If it does not involve me directly -"

"But it _does_, Armand! Someone discovered how t'evade death, mate - 's no way the rest o'the world wouldn't get word o'that 'nd make that kid a global wonder! I don't understand what you're not gettin', mate! I've stumbled upon somethin' that changes human history, modern _science_, Armand!"

"Jack, if you do not stop - _all of zhis_ - zhe sneaking, zhe conversations, zhe contemplation, zhe obsession - if you do not stop all of zhis right now, I am leaving you," Spy snaps, shaking his head and folding his arms across his broad, hairy chest. And now he'd done it, Sniper thinks to himself, his thin lips slanting away from his face, as if wanting to escape the Frenchman's blame. Sighing shortly, Sniper retreats his conscious to fill their shared silence with something to still his suddenly nervous frame, to keep his natural cool; his thick arm hair, his long nose, his suddenly heavy and tired eyes…breathe in, breathe out, he instructs himself. Breathe in and out and know, Jack's conscious snarls, that Armand is the one in the wrong.

"Well 'lright then -"

"Enough is enough. You are zhreatening zhe privacy of my comrade and company; I will not allow any more it, Jack. You bring it up again, I'm breaking up wizh you," he snaps again, rolling over and slinging the covers with him. An increasingly heavy tension fills the air, along with a stifling heat, summer night induced, and Jack's thick brown hair clamps to his face, glued in place with sweat, accompanied by its very own distinct scent of rancid, unwashed skin. He sighs, wrinkling his nose and catching scent of his own mustiness. Comfort refuses to come to him. Readjust the pillow. Wipe the brow, and yank the yellow sheet from underneath Armand's thigh. Glare at the watch as it chimes five. Roll onto his back - though this gesture stops abruptly, Jack's prominent erection blocking the actual momentum.

"Christ…"

He'd forgotten Armand had slipped from underneath him, had wanted none of it.

"I'll 'ave you know, Jack," Spy begins, almost timely with his huffed address of the Australian. "Zhat Lawrence 'as not been in and out of 2Fort base since May. 'E spends time at Santa Fe for physical zherapy, and zhe day you claimed to see 'im resurrect was one of zhem. Zhere was talk of 'is return zhis weekend, but 'e 'as not even been in zhis side of zhe state in nearly two weeks,"

"Mhm - I'm not sayin' shit, mate - don't want y'dumpin' me now," Jack snaps, Armand rolling his eyes before closing them once more.

"But while you're awake -" and Jack, grinning evilly, takes his erection into his hand, pouncing on top of the resting man next to him before hitting him bluntly in the face with it.

"_JACK, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!_"

"Heh heh heh - y'forgot all 'bout Jack Junior while you were sittin' there gettin' all mad! G'day, Armand! I'm Jack Junior 'nd I'm sayin' _bon jour_ -"

"Jack, I mean it! Stop it! Jack - JACK!" the Frenchman sputters, pushing the Australian onto his back, Sniper unable to catch his breath, he laughs so hard. "Zhat's it - I'm leaving," Spy snaps, bluntly grabbing his clothes from the floor.

"What?! What?! _Really_?!" Jack chokes disbelievingly, the silently irate Frenchman slinging a weightless, silk robe over his bare chest, his cotton pajama bottoms pooling at his ankles. "Really?! You're gonna get all bent out o'shape 'cause your own _boyfriend_ plays a bit of a joke on ya with his junk? 'Lright, Sheila!"

But of course Spy gathers his toiletries, his hung up suit, the house shoes dirtied with months of shuffling. "For God's _sake_ it was a damn joke, Armand! C'mon, mate." He tucks it under his arm, and the drawstring crimping the waist band of his pajama pants to his waist undoes itself as forceful strides breaks the loosely tied knot. The Australian rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his own shirtless front, the sodden rug of sweat moistened chest hair clinging downward against his breast, suctioned to his muscular arms. But no amount of darkness within the van is enough to mask Sniper's shame, his ever present erection pointed outward, exposed, maroon coloured boxers twisted around his feet.

Spy wrinkles his groomed brow as their eyes meet, his auburn eyes housing a glint of what Jack could best describe as malice. Sniper staggers backward just slightly as a flesh coloured streak severs its way through the stuffy van air, its whistle a fog horn trying to find its way through impenetrable mist. The hand which the Frenchman extends flashes white as it catches the moonlight of individual beams flooding in through the window. Sniper expects the sting and the slap, the pink oval that forms on the inflamed, gaunt cheek. Gotta wonder that he didn't hit bone, Sniper laughs, bringing the tips of his fingers to massage the lingering pain in his upper jaw.

"Welp!" is all Sniper can pipe guiltlessly as Armand slams the camper door behind him without another word, Jack perfectly content to let the man walk back to his own base alone. He could remember a time in which Armand would not have reacted in such a way; the uptight and admittedly pompous BLU Spy had been both of those things since Sniper's beginning with him, that the man knew. The well groomed man of fine tastes, and finer indulgences, the plucked brow, the unblemished skin, the thick, tastefully swept brown hair, always orderly upon his head (and only disorderly after sex with Sniper), the round face, the picturesque cheeks with the hollowed curve - not as prominent as Sniper's, however - Jack knew them as he'd known how to speak, how to move, how he simply knew loving the features, and the man they belonged to. Armand, Sniper resigns mentally with a quiet sigh before tossing his boxers and falling back against his mattress alone, was a different man, of a different type, of a different sort. Both men had reckoned with the fact well into the earlier months of their now year old relationship. But still, Sniper mumbles under his breath, he'd never known Armand to be so close minded, so quick to start, so unable to take a joke, or Jack himself…

_'Maybe I shouldn't've stolen his watch, then…maybe he woulda been able t'take a dinky t'the face a bit better…'_. Jack smirks, and his grey eyes dart toward the slowly pinkening sky, sunrise a slowly recognizable half hour away. It would blow away, he yawns; the irritation, the threats, the moodswings, the stinging cheeks and heavy handed anger. Mornings always helped ease the wide gapped rift their active compensation for their personalities could not.

"She'll be 'right…" Jack rolls his eyes, refusing to allow his conscious dwell on Armand any further.

_'S long as he doesn't find out I've got the BLU Scout's file under the bed'_ Sniper's inaudible grumble directed only to himself strengthens the secret keeping; the manila folder tucked under the mattress screams with an intrigue only audible to him.

_'S no way he can deny somethin's up with the shit when I show him the paper work provin' it'_.

It mattered little to him that he had no honest idea what the papers inside detailed about the BLU Scout, but they didn't matter. Sleep was much easily obtained when the whole entire world of facts was on your side.


	9. A Beautiful Life

**Author's Note, 4/13/13: **Thank you so much everyone for your patience. I am still working on this story and will finish it, slowly but surely. Lawrence and Jack's chapter will be the next one. Thank you so much for your kind reviews on Ceasefire, as well as this story. I'm happy that, even after two years, Jack and Lawrence, and my writing, reach new audiences and still make people happy. I appreciate it always, even from beyond the grave that is college graduation. Please be patient with me and this story! I'm trying new things, during a period in my life in which everything around me is ever changing; I'm shifting away from sixteen years of academia and schooling, moving to Europe, and starting my career now as a young adult. As a result, Jack and Larry, as well as writing, have fallen by the wayside, but are not forgotten. That said, your support and readership is always appreciated. Thank you all VERY, VERY much for the kind reviews, and may I always continue to write wonderful things for you all, whether it be one reader or one million. -Dingdongfootball.

A third talon of a crow's foot crinkles the peachy skin of the Frenchman's eye, pinching the corner as if under the vice of the very avian the wrinkle derived its namesake from. An identical set of faults crown the lid on the other side; eyelashes falter over his red and hazel eyes like wings, their feathers ruffled and bent. Irritation from the night before pounds infuriating reminders of itself in the back of Armand's mind. Each step upward he treks is a rhythmic gong, a patter of his patented leather dress shoes, reverberating flashes of the Australian's close lipped grin, Armand loathing every glimpse of memory. Another black hair stripped grey like wiry steel; another drag from his cigarette and impatient drawl of mumbles. Another curse and death threat, another wish on the Frenchman's behalf that he had chosen to fall in love with another man. ten years off his life - another ring in the trunk in the redwood of him and Sniper's turbulent relationship.

A bright pink splotch resembling a natural blush glints on the flat cheeks of the BLU Spy, an explosion of blood warmed colour, a pock of irritation left behind from the Sniper smacking the tip of his erection against it the night before. _"I was zhere last night playing zhe part," _Armand mentally reminds himself. "_Zhe RED Sniper bought it as usual." _ Spy shakes a coffee stained matchbook in his manicured fingers, stubbles of sulfur sticks blazing and crackling quietly. _"'E bought it,"_ Armand recites mentally, frantically, scaling the steps, subconsciously aligning his heels together - straightening his back, and accentuating his jaw with his posture as well - before rapping his knuckles against a lightweight but no less foreboding, dark blue door. He pushes it open seconds later, neither hesitantly nor with any noticeable invitation granting him entry; as if led in by pure instinct, an instinct that ignores that sense of ethereal yet unmistakable evil cracking through the walls.

An oval office sprawls before the Frenchman, who wipes his brow with the back of his wide palmed hand, droplets of sweat seeping into the open pores, the even complexion of his unblemished skin. The June heat had already begun its sweltering dominion over all things that had the misfortune of residing under the New Mexico sun. Dmitri Marino stands near a cherry oak desk toward the back of the room, adorned in a fabric heavy pinstripe suit, a dark blue, royal and smokey, apparel much too fine for the sweat meant to come by mid afternoon.

Regardless, he fans himself, leaning against a wooden window sil to his left, the panes of glass above it a brilliant conductor of late morning sunlight. He gestures to it, making to open it before a woman - none other than Helen Ingram herself - silently persuades Dmitri otherwise with a ruthless glare. An ashy bead of sweat swivels on the point of her chin. Armand traces its wet path to its source, her eyeliner smudged around the almond shaped lake of her dark eyes. In a jolt of internal nervousness, Armand adjusts the pressed collars of his flannel dress shirt, the Frenchman nearly naked compared to his suited Italian superior. Helen Ingram, Armand notes internally with cautious unease, was an unexpected sight to behold at the BLU base unannounced.

Though to be fair to the manner in which she preferred to conduct her business, her presence was never anything that was shared with her mercenaries - unless it was a question of inspection, or a termination of contract. Neither of which, Armand concludes with a sigh of relief, is the intention of her visit - at least not on his behalf. Still, the Frenchman draws a heavy breath into his chest, a gusty air of humidity that leaves a damp film of moisture on the inside of his lungs and throat.

"Yes, Armand!" the Italian turns on his heel to address his comrade, clapping his hands in a lively rhythm, his olive brown smile wide, his square jaw framing a boxy grin. The Frenchman replies to Dmitri's energetic friendliness with friendliness, though quiet, of his own. Careful not to let his nervous eyes stray to the woman who sits primly just a few feet away, Armand maintains a professional gaze with his fellow BLU Spy, from whom Armand expected only deceit; smiles and booming greetings meant nothing between two men who lied and tricked for a living.

Still, he does not refuse the offer to stand closer to the Italian by the window, Armand quietly inspecting the fibers of Dmitri's suit for sweat stains, though none are to be found.

"You're almost _insanely_ early, you know!" Dmitri begins immediately, grinning even wider at Armand's nervous laugh. "Perhaps I'm out of line with this hypothesis, but I would have expected a _much_ longer overnight with the RED Sniper, if you get my drift - oh don't look so _prudish,_ we're _all _adults here, Quincompoix! Besides, it's not as if you two would have done anything along_ those_ lines, considering the nature of _your_ business! Isn't that right, Miss Ingram?" the silence Dmitri meets is enough of an indication for him to slowly fall back, Armand clearing his throat curtly.

"Yes, I too find zhat I returned to base much earlier zhan I assumed I would be," Armand begins somewhat gruffly, watching as Dmitri slings his suit jacket over his shoulder.

"Yes, yes, I'm assuming you didn't even stay around for _breakfast,_" Dmitri chuckles. "A bit abrupt of a lover, aren't you…" the man elbows Armand, who smiles nervously; the awkwardness of the moment is thankfully spared as a well made up Miss Pauling sticks her own bespectacled head through the door frame, her small hands curled around it. Though she catches the attention of the two men, her eyes dart straight past them and instead focus on Helen, who nods curtly, shooing the younger woman away with forceful flicks of the back of her hand.

"Ahhh, Pauling! If it isn't my favourite and most beautiful intern at TF Industries! I _know _you're dying for my attention, dear, but -"

"Miss Ingram? Miss Ingram -" she begins immediately, taking no notice to the Italian who swaggers his way over to her urgently tensed frame.

"What is it, Pauling?"

"Please, it honestly can't wait much longer! It - it's about Dr. Shelley and -"

"Say no more, you silly girl!" Helen sneers before rising from her chair, grabbing a light overcoat from a rack beside the desk. "Will you really be leaving then, Miss Ingram?" Dmitri beams at the back of Helen's light grey poof of hair. She glares for an answer, the dark red smears of her thin, nonexistent lips, penciled in form with lipstick, curling against the flare of her nostrils. "Yes of course, don't think I mean to _pry_ or anything! But still, would you not want to wait just a few moments to hear Mr. Quincompoix's report on the RED Sni-?"

"I've heard enough of the reports to last a life time, Marino. I needn't sit in the room to physically hear the report in order to know that nothing about the status of the RED Sniper has changed! Armand Quincompoix, tell me yourself; is there anything in your new report that you feel I need to be present for?" the woman sharply croaks, glaring fixedly on the Frenchman, growing more and more cold the longer the silence in the room drags on.

"M-Miss Ingram?" Miss Pauling mumbles, though the woman acts as if she didn't hear it; her eyes remain rooted on Armand, who shakes his head quickly.

"No, Miss Ingram, I 'ave nozhing out of zhe ordinary to report today,"

Helen exits with Pauling without another word, the door closing behind both of them with a light snap. "_So then!_" Dmitri's booming voice comes packed with a hard slap against the shoulder blade of his fellow BLU Spy. Eyes bugging out only slightly, Armand waits patiently for the Italian to begin their preordained meeting officially; he'd forgotten how dramatic Marino had a tendency to be. In an effort to be polite yet curt, Armand checks a plain, leather wrist watch, the small office in which they reside seeming suddenly brighter; the sun grows closer to its afternoon perch, and the yellow light beaming in through the windows, a sandy dust filtering its warmth, illuminates the Italian like a celestial spotlight.

"Let's get on with it, shall we? Had I known you were not going to be taking longer with the RED Sniper, and that Miss Ingram and the lovely Pauling were going to be surprising me so shortly before our own scheduled meeting, I would have requested you'd come and meet with me much earlier,"

"Well, a pre-planned surprise is not actually much of one, non?" Armand jokes back quietly, both men quietly allowing the other to produce cigarettes from their sterling silver cases; the comforting hum of their accented English, both romantic in origin though foreign to the other nonetheless, sets the rhythm of the discussion. Armand marks the signature quietly in the back of his mind. His stomach grumbles, rumbling and gurgling as if the bile within it meant to overturn the organ proper. The nicotine, tobacco, and smoke, he quietly ponders and hopes, would settle it all on its own.

"Well, yes, I suppose you are right," Marino concedes through raised eyebrows. "You know, Quincompoix, I like you. I like you quite a lot." A friendly drawl replaces the staccato wit upon which he'd previously rested the needle of their conversation. "You know, right before you came in, I'd mentioned a promotion on your behalf to Miss Ingram - I explained I was expecting you shortly and that I had business to attend to with you - and, being Miss Ingram's most loyal, trusted, and devoted, and _high ranking_ BLU Spy within her private cabinet - I rather think she took onto the idea! I have to say, Armand! Should you want to go anywhere in TF Industries, you have two reservation tickets that'll get you _wherever_ your heart desires! The first being, catch Ingram's eye. The second? _Come now_, isn't it obvious? Have my blessing and recommendation!" Marino laughs heartily at his own monologue, Armand's lips curling smally.

"It was a joke, Quincompoix, I see your missions with the RED Sniper have left with the _humour_ of one, eh?" Dmitri, though a cunningly talented man of espionage - one Armand genuinely recognized as such - was quite unable to suppress his scathing distaste at Armand's silent rejection of the waltz of flattery Dmitri'd wished to initiate. His words, Armand had come to learn, were no more genuine than the lies of mirth in his green eyes. "No matter, we're not here for _jokes_, now are we? There's no _way_ you'll get my aforementioned promotion if Ingram comes to see us, _chatting away and smoking_ like two old _men_ in the sun! Not even with my good word put in,"

"No, I suppose not," Armand mutters quietly, relieved once Dmitri seems ready to move things along, producing a file from his desk and plopping it before him. "You suppose correctly; I myself am a busy man, the Administrator and I are involved in _quite_ a project you know," he peers suggestively up at the Frenchman, whose deadpan expression does not waiver under the temptation of intrigue.

"Oh come on, don't you even want to maybe _guess_ what it could be?!"

"I'd razher get quickly zhrough the evaluation of my latest week, if you don't mind,"

"Tss, tss, _tss,_ Quincompoix! What self proclaimed good spy of BLU would let such easily obtained secrets slip through his very hands?" Dmitri scolds his insubordinate darkly. "It takes more than a swarthy French accent and nice suit to deceive your adversaries, Armand; you'd do best to show off how much more forthcoming you can be in your desires to _pry_,"

"To be fair, Monsieur Marino, as much as it takes for a good spy to_ pry_ 'is information away from 'is target, it is just as much to tell when 'e must not actually work for it, because zhe ozher would willingly give zhem to it wizhout me 'ardly needing to ask. Per'aps I shall show more initiative on my end if you provide me wizh zhe challenge,"

The scathing back and forth of the duet of insecurity.

"You know, Armand, I _like_ you. I would have _never_ dared to speak to my superior in such a way, back in the days when I was in a lowly rank such as yours, in your _seat_, at the very same mercy of others at which you, technically speaking, are of _me_. I suppose the RED Sniper doesn't suspect a _thing_ about your relationship or allegiance, does he?"

Marino allows Armand a moment to speak, greeted only by silence.

"I suppose I'll see for myself here in a minute," he mumbles, finally opening the file. "You know I remember the missions of my own I had, much like yours with the RED Sniper…" Dmitri begins quietly. "They say there are some roles not even the greatest spies can play, you know, and yet, the enemy playing the role of the _forbidden lover _has been the easiest of all, in my career. Do you know how many wives of Gestapo men I brought back into my bed during war time, when I first defected to Great Britain? Honestly, too many to count! Though my own file has an approximation- as I said, some spies believe in constant cloaks and disguises, when really, _undisguised_ seems to get you the farthest! But perhaps you disagree - would you say the Sniper would be more willing to trust you and your proclamations of _loving him _were you disguised as a fellow RED? Or do you think you trusting your "love" into him as a plain-as-day BLU Spy adds to your own disguise in actuality?"

"'E certainly does not question my love for 'im, no…"

"Speak up? I can't hear you - it's not as if he's _listening_, you have no cover to _blow_, here…"

"But it took monzhs for me to gain 'is trust. Naturally 'e was suspicious for zhe first six of our fraternization,"

"Suspicious of what,_ you_? Your motives, your intentions? Your emotions, your feelings? If you do not answer_ 'all of those things'_, then you are not doing your job, _regardless_ of how easily he's bought your tricks. Then again, your last year and a half pretending to be the man's lover has gained us quite a hefty file on him, here! And to think Miss Ingram thought the mission was pointless! Crazy old bat, gotta _love_ the bitch! Whatever though, let me move on, I've yapped enough! What do you have to report on him _this week? _More of the same, I imagine…"

Armand gulps, instantly swallowing down the jagged and rusty can of worms that was the Australian's preoccupation with Lawrence, their Scout. "No, actually. Zhis week 'e 'as only been chatting about Jane's blunder wizh zhe rocket last week. You know, zhe…"

"One that hit Teufort directly? Yes, I do. People are still picking debris out of their yards, you know. You are not the _only_ _one _meant to meet with Miss Ingram and myself today, Quincompoix, only difference is _your_ job isn't on the line. You cannot even _imagine_ how much bad PR that oaf has cost us! And to think that your little RED friend is sitting back, laughing away his little head…" Dmitri tisks heavily. "But that's what I'm here to talk to you about. Miss Ingram and I have been keeping close tabs on your mission, and the RED Sniper as well, let me tell you, you do a _phenomenal_ job pretending to love the man, you nearly have _all_ of us fooled as _well_, you know!"

Armand mumbles a quiet thank you, careful not to let the Italian sense his very real sense of love and affection for the Australian in his uncertain eyes.

"Seriously, Armand, you are splendid! But I want to warn you to be careful - playing the role is hard, but even harder is not letting yourself _become_ your role. Bedding a German broad as an Anti-Nazi in Hitler's Germany was easy, even if you take away the _business aspect _of my duties at the time! Harder was silencing the urge in the back of your mind to not forget their names and faces, if you catch my drift, Quincompoix. They say spying is a heartless job, but I disagree, if you _really_ didn't have a heart, you wouldn't be able to manipulate so many people into giving you theirs, after all. What I am getting at, Quincompoix, is do not let any_ real_ feelings of affection for the man develop - ah, ah, ah, do not give me that _look_, did you not hear what I just said? Spies are not soulless _robots_, you'll grow attachment here and there for the people you're after, sometimes you'll even grow to care about them, or want to exchange _phone numbers_ and _addresses_ with them. But do not let yourself venture so deep, Armand.

You're familiar with, ah, what is his name, the RED Spy? Lucien Rousseau, I believe? A Frenchman like yourself - he lost his first wife that way, by falling too much in love with his target. Thankfully the couple did not have children, but you can sense it in his psyche that the pain eats him alive - a broken spy is the easiest to read, Armand, and a good spy he may be - all you French ones are exceptional, some odd reason! But of course this was years _ago_, back when the Germans still thought they were going to rule the world…" Dmitri chuckles softly, as if reminiscing about war time Europe was as pleasant and light as his laughter suggests. "You know rumour has it he is the stepfather of Lawrence Fitzpatrick, our comrade and BLU Scout,"

"Yes, I 'ave 'eard zhem myself…" Armand clears his throat.

"I've never actually heard them confirmed, but perhaps that would explain the boy's abnormal hatred of the man. I suppose he wasn't all that phenomenal of a father,"

"'E 'As never discussed it wizh me. 'E does not talk to me about much else ozher zhan baseball, ducks, or comic books,"

"You know, everyone underestimates, the kid. Sure, he's_ goofy and young_, but he's got quite a stamina and intelligence to him, you just have to - get to know him, I suppose - work with him in close quarters. I see you still have some work to do there with him,"

"I've never 'ad a reason to interact wizh 'im,"

"All the more reason to learn the ins and outs of his very being, Armand…" Dmitri crushes his cigarette into a pewter ashtray. "But! If you insist the RED Sniper has not done anything _interesting_, as of late…"

"No,"

"Well then allow me to insist otherwise, Armand. Without divulging _too _much information, there is great reason to keep high profile watch on Scout and his personal information. You may have noticed he's seldom been around the base?"

"Yes, Jane informed us 'e was temporarily relocated to anozher base to aid wizh 'is physical zherapy,"

"Yes, that would uh, be the case - now say what you want about the boy's duck craze, but he's a _damn good_ scout,"

"Zhat 'e is…" Armand nods, silently growing irritated with Jack's insistence that anything otherwise could possibly be up with him.

Theres nothing going on with scout? Wherever would you get such an absurd idea such as thtat?

"And naturally your little RED buddies are going to want to push their advantages with our Scout being completely out of commission. Rather than risk it, I imagine they'd rather know the details and nature of his hiatus, so they don't plan an ambush, only for him to come _springing_ out of the cafeteria, or something! Based on our observances, we - Ingram and I, as well as a few others - have reason to believe that the RED Sniper is using _you _just as much as you are _him,_ and namely to gain access to Lawrence's personal information surrounding the nature of his business,"

"What?! Do not be absurd!" Armand hisses, quickly going red from embarrassment. "Do you mean to say zhat, zhat - I am so bad at my own job zhat I would not be able to tell if Jack was faking 'is interest in me? Zhe man can 'ardly fool a _paper bag_ let alone a professional spy into not seeing any alterior motive 'e may or may not 'ave!"

"That's just _it_, Armand, we fear you may have grown too close with the man and have therefore lost your guard and sense of perspective on him, and rather than penalize you for negligence and complete incompetency -"

"NOW WAIT JUST A MINUTE - !"

"Shh - _let me finish, Quincompoix_ - rather than give you a stern talking to, we are going to allow you to _redeem_ yourself - _listen to my instructions, would you?_"

"So much for zhe _promotion_, Marino,"

"Ha, that was only to relax you, but you saw right through that, it's why I told Miss Ingram you're _far_ from a complete failure and waste. Why, you're easily one of the best Spies TF Industries has in the US, though Rousseau, I'd say easily takes the cake for that title. Second to me, of course. Now then, the boy's file is missing,"

"Whose _file_?!"

"_Lawrence's file._ Stolen last night under our very noses,"

_'Jack you idiot!' _Armand sneers internally. "_'Ow, when_?!"

"Last night, at around two in the morning, the file was stolen from the archives above. Though, the thief left them so neatly behind that we wouldn't have notice had we not gone looking for it specifically,"

"And you mean to suggest zhat, zhat Jack 'as stolen it?!" Armand replies incredulously. It added up, he notes with a drop of his stomach, the time of the thievery, the person to whom the file belonged, and the man's obsession with solving Scout's mystery_ 'A Scout who 'as not been on zhis base in monzhs, as Dmitri 'as informed me…'_ he snaps mentally.

"Well yes, I certainly do,"

"Wizh all due respect, Marino, but Jack - Jack - zhere is no, _no_ way, 'e would 'ave done a clean snatch of zhe files -"

"Listen, Armand, I _know_ you have come to care for him for more than we expected, and I am not here to punish you for that, _today_. The point is, we have a major security breach on our hands, and we are _more_ than certain the RED Sniper is behind it. Now I will ask you again - and don't worry, we won't _kill_ him - has the RED Sniper done anything as of late that would strike you as odd or out of the ordinary, particularly in connection with him being the culprit of this crime?"

"Non," Armand replies stonily, praying to every known god the Italian does not see through the most blatant lie he has ever told. Dmitri seems unconvinced despite Armand's begging of the divine; peering at him through narrowed eyes a full thirty seconds' length in silence, the Italian finally leans back in his chair.

"Listen closely, Quincompoix, for what I am about to request of you will cost you your job at best, should you fail, and perhaps your very _life_ otherwise. This file is missing, and its disappearance is a threat so major to BLU that the Administrator herself has devoted time and effort into seeking its immediate recovery. Unfortunately, Lawrence, the Scout, whom we would usually use for the job, is unavailable. Whether or not the RED Sniper has _actually_ taken the file or not is inconsequential. The point is he is our closest link to solving this quickly and quietly - a link you have complete and unbridled access to -"

"Yes, but why _'im_ specifically? What 'as 'e done to gain your suspicion? I 'ave seen nozhing!"

"_That_ is not your business, and don't you even think about making it yours unless you want immediate termination of your job, earnings and position. The point is, your job is now to help us find and recover the Scout's file. Your second priority is to bring the thief back to us, which we _highly _believe is the RED Sniper, or whoever he may be - but probably isn't. In the very likely scenario that the RED Sniper stole the file, you merely need to check the nest, their base, or his hovel of a van for the documents, get a confession out of him, and consider the case closed. Or, you may have to be a bit more _Nancy Drew_ than that, but your love train is getting the brakes pulled on it, Armand. Bring us the file and the person who stole it, or you'll be seeing a lot more of the Administrator and myself, in ways I imagine you wouldn't quite like to. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes sir,"

"Wonderful. On another note you've done a phenomenal job reeling in the RED Sniper. Now you only need to reel yourself _out._ Now you'll have to excuse me, I have business to attend to with Jane Doe and I have an even busier day with the Administrator beyond that. I do believe you got the urgency of your mission and we can consider this meeting adjourned,"

_"God dammit, Jack Mundy!"_


End file.
